


If You Could Read My Mind

by Tametomo



Series: Twins! [2]
Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Actor Tom Hiddleston, Alternate Universe - Twins, Angst, F/M, Infidelity, Luke Windsor hates his job, Romantic Fluff, Taylor Swift - Freeform, Tom Hiddleston Being a Dick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-01
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-05-17 00:16:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 31,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14821619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tametomo/pseuds/Tametomo
Summary: Tom and Carrie are blissfully happy, until a disastrous mistake from the past threatens to destroy everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this last year and got stuck on one part near the end - and just came back to it and finished it. 
> 
> It's a sequel to Double Vision - if you haven't read that, then trust me, you're going to want to do that first, firstly for character/story background (you'll be pretty confused otherwise!), and also because this has MAJOR spoilers if you read it first.
> 
> Character notes: if you want to picture Tom as I've written him here, think Tom at 2017 Comic Con, cleanshaven with his slightly longer hair.  
> For Lachie (Tom's AU twin), think of Tom with short dark hair.

_If you're expecting a happy ending, then it's only fair that I let you walk away, if you choose. I don't want to disappoint you, but things don't always work out. Heroes often fail, sometimes boy meets girl isn't enough, and sometimes other forces get in the way. I suppose it depends a great deal on whether you really are the hero of your own story. It's somewhere between disconcerting and devastating to find out you're not, and the magnitude of it depends on how much you have to lose. It turns out that not every love story is meant to work out._

_But you have to try, right? You have to take a leap into the void, come what may. Otherwise you're not really living at all._

_This is the story of how I tried._

_~~~~~_

_I miss him dreadfully._

_It didn't used to be like this, of course. When he went away for work, we just Skyped each other at night and got on with our jobs in the daytime. But since everything that happened earlier this year, it's different. I guess nearly losing someone will do that to you._

_I've been trying not to let on. I know he has a lot on his plate, and the thought of playing the tearful, needy girlfriend and having him feel sorry for me is beneath me. I let him call me, and leave him alone otherwise. He can tell, though, I think. Last week he asked if I wanted to fly out and see him on set. I made myself say no. I know what he's like when he's working. He doesn't need me hovering around. I doubt the rest of the cast and crew would appreciate it either._

_It's not like I don't have enough to keep me busy. I've been writing like a crazy person, 12 hours most days, and there's also all the stuff with Isotopia. They finally filmed the first book. There's five in the series but they've just started with this one, to see how it lands. It's about what happens when what happens when people don't have to be scared of radiation, or disease, or resource shortages any more - and how human nature crashes in and sabotages things when you'd expect everything to be perfect. Steven Soderbergh directed it, which I still can't process. Meeting him was... I can't even articulate it. He was quiet and I was speechless, until I started burbling about the story. He looked relieved when I stopped, but I caught a forgiving twinkle behind the black frames of his glasses. After that I found my composure, and he never mentioned my lack of it._

_Just like last time, they wanted me to be involved with the press, so there've been some interviews, and a few tv appearances. I hate those, but needs must. It's horribly awkward. You have to drape a persona around your shoulders and hope it doesn't slip off. Glue on a smile, be nice, and politely dodge all the personal questions about your boyfriend._

_And just like last time, it seems the team working on the adaptation did it pretty faithfully. I got over not being asked to do the adaptation myself, after a while, and let them get on with it. I haven't seen it yet but they're a good team, and I think I can trust them. They used the draft script I put together from my original book and really didn't change many of the key elements, just trimmed and edited it to fit into two hours. (I'm hopeless at editing; just not ruthless enough.) They cast Viola Davis, which I was delighted with, and Eric Bana. I can't wait to see it._

_Tom will be here for the premiere. To have him there, by my side, watching something I imagined, brought to life onscreen... it makes my heart pop a little. However low I get without him, I think of how perfect it will be, and I hug myself._

_He'll be back soon. Not long now. A week and a half. I can last that long._

_~~~~~_

_I'm drained. It was a six hour flight, but it felt like twenty six. I've never quite got used to all the flying, and I can't sleep on planes. There was a gang of shutterbugs at Heathrow when I got in, and a small crowd of fans, so I couldn't whizz through as I'd planned. I hope I wasn't too monosyllabic. It was half past midnight by the time I got my bags, and my brain was as wiped as the rest of me. I no longer know what face I pull when I'm asked for selfies. Muscle memory kicks in and I perform as required. I doubt anyone's getting what they hoped for._

_I've started to feel guilty about that. I've always wanted to make time for anyone that can be bothered to make time for me. What a vast, obsequious cliche it is; gratitude to one's fans, love for an amorphous group of people that, for the most part, you don't know. But without their attention and affection, my career would be very, very different. I know I owe them a lot. And I'm well aware of the power imbalance. They wait outside an airport for me in the rain. What does that mean for them? A signature, a photo, a hug. What does it mean for me? It's my career. Their loyalty puts food on my table, pays for this lifestyle. I get far more from the exchange, and equally I have more to lose. They find their way home, however far away that might be, and I get back into a comfortable car and get driven home. By and large, they seem to be pretty considerate. And I have to admit I like the attention. Having girls scream your name when you show up somewhere is still deeply disconcerting, but it doesn't dent one's ego._

_It's just a little... what's the word I'm looking for? You get to feeling closed in. Knowing wherever you go next, there'll be a crowd of people who want something from you, one by one, all shouting your name at you, climbing over each other. The sensation of being carved up like a burnt offering, and given out to people piece by piece. What if you give all of yourself away? What's left? Are you still you, or just an avatar of yourself? It's hard to find a moment to just be quiet. To arrive somewhere and be able to just walk in with your own thoughts. To sit in an airport and read for an hour - I haven't done that in so long. I know people who really struggle with it. It's no job for an introvert. I manage it well enough most of the time, but if you've had a bad day, or you're under the weather, or it's two in the morning, the smile and the time costs you more than usual. And I know there are people in this industry that sneer at me for spending the time I do on the fans; they think it's insincere. Well, they're welcome to their opinion._

_Thank God I only have to deal with the circus in public; I don't have girls scaling my garden wall just yet. But I have to face the fact that if my career goes where I want, that may become an ugly reality. I don't want to mistrust all these people who have helped me get this far. I don't want to have to hide from them or become some sort of Howard Hughes shut-in. I don't want to snap at anyone. My temper is an ugly thing, and I've worked hard to bury it._

_All I want right now is Carrie. I called her half an hour ago when the car arrived. I told her not to wait up for me, but she always does. God, it was good to hear her voice. I've missed her more than I realised. I compartmentalise things when I'm working, because I've got to focus. I can't have anything get in the way. I've pushed away the thoughts of her for the last six weeks, only letting her in on the evenings when I phoned her. I haven't told her that. She doesn't need to hear it. It would only hurt her, because although she might understand it, she wouldn't relate to it; and there's no need to explain it to her, because she doesn't ask more of me than I can give._

_I wonder what she's doing right now. I wonder what she's wearing._


	2. Chapter 2

_Lord, but he looked good. He got in an hour ago, and I jumped him the moment he walked through the door. He cooperated, though I could see he was zonked from the flight. He's fast asleep now, and I, as ever, have insomnia. His muscles are tense. I can see the stress knotted up in his shoulders. Even in his sleep he doesn't relax. I tried to push and ease the tension out before he fell asleep, working my fingers over and into the most rigid muscles. He said he was fine but he visibly slumped with relief when I started. Weeks and weeks of pent up self-discipline and self-induced stress. I know he loves what he does, but he punishes himself over it too. Like he's got to be better than everyone else, even himself. I can see him in his trailer, pacing back and forth with the script, savaging himself every time he gets a word or inflection wrong. Winding himself up into a coil. I'll go at it again tomorrow. I think it'll take a few goes._

_He's ditched the blond. His hair is slightly reddish now - a sort of nutty light brown, a little longer than usual; it's settled into his natural wave. He has a couple of days of stubble, and he's a little narrower than he was - he wasn't doing so much action this time round so I guess there was no call for him to be particularly built. The leanness draws attention to his height. He showed up in navy trousers and a casual shirt in that cornflower blue shade that looks so good on him. He twinkled at me in the doorway, cracked that pirate's smile of his, his hands went to my hips and mine to his neck, and we staggered backward into the living room, crashing into the dining table and sweeping all the contents off it to the floor. I think we broke a vase. There'll be some clearing up to do tomorrow._

_~~~~~_

_Of course, now the press know I'm back in London, they're outside my door every morning again. I know they're just doing their job, but it is wearying._

_I promised Carrie we'd do something lovely today, as she had the day off from press calls, and I didn't want us to have to hide indoors or have them follow us. What the paparazzi don't know is that there's an extra way out. You go out through the garden, and instead of taking the second, outer gate that leads to the road, you slip down a little private alleyway that runs down the back of all the neighbours' gardens. It chucks you out a good distance away; we put our hoods up and our sunglasses on, and off we went._

_I bought a bottle of rosé, some smoked salmon, cherry tomatoes and fresh bread, a punnet of strawberries, and a little pot of ice cream with two spoons. We climbed up to the heath. There's a sort of hayfield up there; you can hide in it quite nicely. I put my jacket down for her to sit on, and we sat in the warm air, with the hay nose-high around us, getting gently pissed and stuffing our faces with strawberries. We spent the whole afternoon sneezing, but it somehow added to the delicious feeling of getting away with it. We sloped home under cover of darkness, sniggering like teenagers. The paparazzi had gone by the time we got back, and we stumbled through the door drunk and happy._

_While we were up there, I came to a decision. I've been mulling over it for a while. And it might be a terrible idea, I might make a hopeless fool of myself, but I've made up my mind. I'm going to ask Carrie to marry me. We've been together nearly a year, and we've already been through one of the worst things anyone can go through; I'm not going to risk losing her again. I want to put a ring on her finger and have her know that I don't and won't want anyone else, ever again._

_God, please don't let her laugh in my face._

_I've got to choose my moment carefully._


	3. Chapter 3

Carrie tried to block out the light. Tom, next to her, was doing all he could to sabotage her. They lay in bed, the 9AM sun streaming in through the window. Tom was merrily reading the Sunday papers, crunching a piece of excessively buttered toast and reading out choice headlines to the bad tempered imp under the covers next to him. Carrie lay curled on her side, her head propped on his bare chest, the covers pulled over her face. The hangover was worse than she'd faced in a long time. Why had she let him feed her tequila after a bottle of rosé? Her face throbbed. Her eyes throbbed. Even her eyebrows, she noticed with dull dismay, ached. 

Tom was being exceptionally helpful. Every few minutes, he would balance the broadsheet carefully on her head, over the covers. She would growl, as Alsatian-like as she could manage, and move her head sharply to dislodge the paper, rattling the duvet irritably at him before wincing at the pain that shaking her head woke up. Tom would remove the paper, with an innocent, breezy "Sorry, darling," and pat her on the shoulder. Not three minutes later, he would do it again.

She adjusted her position, nestling her head into the crook of his arm, forcing him to hold the paper aloft at an awkward angle. Just as she got comfortable, she felt his index finger poke her in the face; a gentle but provocative prod in her cheek. She batted his hand away.  
"Were you thinking of getting up today?" he asked mildly.   
Leaning over her, he kissed her hair and coaxed softly in her ear, "Have breakfast with me. It'll go cold." He crunched amiably on a piece of toast.  
She growled again softly, and burrowed more firmly against him. *Prod* - his finger poked her cheek again. She gritted her teeth. If she ignored him, he would lose interest in the game, and let her sleep in peace. *Prod*.

*Prod*.

"Tom!!!"  
"Sorry, darling. As you were."

*Prod*.

*PROD*. Quicker than he could anticipate, she grabbed his index finger, and held it firmly away from her face. He tried to pull away but for a pintsized, half-asleep creature labouring under a monstrous hangover, she had a grip like an alligator. She twisted his finger slightly.  
"Ow! Carrie." She stubbornly refused to let go. "Ow - alright! Jesus. Give me my finger back."  
"Behave yourself then," she scowled.  
"Scout's honour." He saluted gallantly with his free hand.  
She tightened her grip. "Don't trust you."  
"Carrie... OW - fuck." He was annoyed now. She relaxed her hold, though only slightly.  
"No more funny business?"  
"I promise." His voice was serious. She looked up at him with suspicion. He leaned over her and kissed her forehead, and she let go.  
Suddenly something hot and greasy scratched her nose. Tom had wiped a heavily buttered slice of toast across her face, leaving a neat blob of butter sitting pertly on the end of her nose. Incensed, she started to sit up, but too late - Tom was above her, pinning her down, laughing. His hands went for her middle, tickling her viciously and she howled and wriggled. She scrabbled at him desperately but he was ruthless, his fingers pattering all over her abdomen and making her contort and convulse breathlessly.  
"Tom - ! Nn.. nngghhh... fucker...aaah!" The tickling was more than she could stand.  
"Tell me I win," he demanded, grinning. She shook her head, trying to reach his hands, but they strayed now to the sides of her ribs, the most ticklish part of her body, as he well knew, and his long frame gave him a distinct advantage.  
"Tell me I win."  
"Nnggh... waitwaitwait.... okay, okay... please..."  
Tom's mouth sought out hers, and his hands stopped tormenting her as he flattened them out and ran his palms slowly up over her skin towards her neck and jawline. Short of breath and weak with relief, Carrie let herself sink into his kiss.  
"Say it..."  
"You're a complete bastard, you know that?" she accused.  
"Say it or I'll tickle you again."  
"Okay, fine... you win. Alright?" she grumbled. Tom relaxed, satisfied, and kissed her lazily. Her pride was bruised, and she bristled against him for a moment, but then she let her hands snake around the back of his neck, and pulled him into her.


	4. Chapter 4

The clock chimed ten and Tom kicked off the covers and swung his legs out of bed. Carrie watched the light dance off his skin as he stood up, pulling an old pair of jeans up over his naked hips. He loped out of the bedroom and returned with two mugs of steaming hot coffee.  
"Peace offering," he admitted, kissing her ear. He slipped the jeans off again and got back into bed, and she nestled contentedly against his warm, bare skin. Tom curled an arm around her, and waited for her to close her eyes for a moment, before deftly reaching down into the pocket of the discarded jeans, and tucking a little black box under his pillow. He planted a kiss on her dark hair.

An hour later, they were still curled up together. Tom had gotten up again briefly and made Carrie scrambled eggs, and she forked lazily at the last of it. They had finished with the Observer, and now he started to thumb through the Sunday Mirror. An awards show, a double spread of starlets in evening gowns... Carrie glanced over them with vague interest.  
"She's pretty," she remarked absently, pointing at a British TV actress with blonde hair in a sort of patchworked, hippyish slip dress.  
"Yeah," he shrugged. "Not sure about the dress though." He kissed the side of her hair.  
Carrie stretched, yawning, and murmured, "We should get up at some point, I suppose."  
Tom wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her back towards him. "Half an hour more. I don't get enough time with you like this."  
She smiled, and leaned against him, still glancing through the paper. Carefully, imperceptibly, Tom reached under the pillow and his hand closed around the small black box. Carrie turned the page of the paper, and froze.

**HIDDLESWIFT SCANDAL AT THE VANITY FAIR MASSACRE**  
_Shocking photographs of Tom Hiddleston and Taylor Swift have emerged from the night that tragedy struck Hollywood. The former couple were spotted at the Vanity Fair party kissing after an explosive argument between the Night Manager actor and his author girlfriend Carrie Stark, less than half an hour before gunmen burst into the exclusive party and opened fire._

Tom made a choked sound and grabbed at the paper, but Carrie snatched it out of his reach. A single picture glared accusingly at them from the centre of the page. Grainy, dark, but unmistakable. Tom, in a dark suit, and Taylor, in that gold column dress. His mouth on hers, her hands around the back of his neck. His hands on the singer's face.

"Carrie-"  
"Get out."  
  
Carrie's voice was a tight, icy monotone. Through a clenched jaw, she repeated herself.

"GET - OUT."

Tom turned to her, and touched her hand. She recoiled as if electricity had shot through her.  
"Carrie, _please_ , let me explain -"  
"GET OUT." Now her voice shook with barely controlled rage. She turned to him, and her eyes chilled him - it was as if the bottom had dropped out of them. He had never seen anything like that look on her face before. He ran a desperate hand through his hair, his breath ragged and hard.  
"Please just listen..."  
She jerked out of bed in one sharp, violent movement, wrapping a robe around herself, and faced him for a moment.  
"If you won't leave, I will." Instantly he was on his feet between her and the door, but she shoved past him and fled to the bathroom, slamming the door between them and locking herself in. Through the door, her sobs echoed appallingly in the silence of the bedroom.

~~~~~

_Fuck. I feel sick. God, what have I done? What the hell was I thinking? How could I have been so stupid?_  
  
_If only I'd just let her sleep, she wouldn't have opened that paper... If I had managed to propose first, she'd at least know how serious I am, that this doesn't have to - Jesus. Idiot. Who am I trying to kid? She was always going to find out. The photos are probably all over the internet already. I should have told her. It was never not going to come out. I wish I hadn't even spoken to Taylor that night... God. How do I fix this? I have to fix this. I can't lose her now, not over something monumentally stupid that happened months ago._  
  
_If I can get her to talk to me, I can explain. I can get her to see it was stupid, just a blip, a momentary bolt of towering idiocy on my part. I was blinded by anger, I didn't know what I was doing. Christ, I didn't start it. But I shouldn't have let it happen. She has to know I don't want anyone but her._  
  
_What if she won't listen? What if she can't forgive this? I've never seen her like that. God, if I could undo things..._  
  
_I tried to talk to her through the door, but she won't say anything. She cried in there for about twenty minutes. She sounded wretched. I've never felt like such a worthless shit in all my life. There's been complete silence for the last hour. After a while I started to panic that she might have done something awful, but I looked through the keyhole and she was just sitting on the floor against the bathtub, with her head in her hands._  
  
_She's not going to come out. I guess she's waiting for me to leave. If I do that... what if she just leaves and never comes back?_  
  
_Please, please don't let this be the end of things. I can't lose her._


	5. Chapter 5

_Bastard. Fucking lying bastard cheating piece of fucking shit. I hate him._   
  
_He won't leave. He's still out there. I'm not going out there while he's here. I don't want his excuses, I don't want to hear his voice, I can't even look at him. Lying snake. Everything I loved about him, everything I thought was beautiful, all of it was a counterfeit._   
  
_He was everything to me. I trusted him completely, and he allowed me to. And meanwhile he deceived me, he outright lied to me, and just to rub salt in the wound, he's totally humiliated me. I should have known better. I knew something wasn't right that night. Even after she made a fool of him in public, he couldn't leave her alone. He accused me of being "precious" about him flirting with her, and then kissed her in front of a roomful of people. Did he think I was never going to hear about it? Either he must think I'm blind, deaf and a hermit, or he imagined he's such a catch that he could just get away with it. Jesus! The breathtaking arrogance of him._   
  
_He's knocking on the door again. Asking if I'm okay. Yeah, I'm great. Tickety-boo. What a joke._   
  
_I feel lightheaded, nauseous. The thought of them together... I can't stand it. Him kissing her, in front of other people. It actually physically hurts. I want to cry all of it out, only crying won't unexplode us. And if he was laughing at me all that time... getting away with it, behind my back... I can't bear it._   
  
_I'm going to see that photo wherever I look. Gossip rags and the Twitterati picking over our relationship and romanticising the two of them. If I see the word "Hid*****ift" again I think I'll set fire to something. He tried to make excuses through the door, said he didn't start it, didn't want it. He looked happy enough in that photo, didn't he? I despise him. I despise him. Why is he still out there? Leave. Fucking LEAVE. I wish he'd fuck off, so I can pack my stuff and never come back._

~~~~~

The lock clicked, echoing in the silence.   
  
Carrie had waited over two hours, seething with blackened impatience. Why wouldn't he leave? The fuck did he think he could do? Did he think he could just make everything okay? A little before 1.30pm, she crouched at the door and squinted through the keyhole. He was hunched over on the floor, his back braced against the bed. She couldn't see his face; he had tucked his head down and hugged his knees, hiding all but the ruffle of hair. He hadn't moved for some time. Was he asleep? Carrie cleared her throat at a cautious volume. No movement. Perhaps she could sneak out, just grab her handbag and make a dash for it.   
  
She winced at the sound of the lock snapping open. Gingerly she opened the door. He was motionless, dozing unhappily. She crept forward, reached for her bag, and deftly snatched it up over Tom's sleeping head.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter and the next have spoilers for Double Vision, so if you're planning to read that (and for the background on Tom and Carrie's relationship), do that before reading further...

Tom sank onto a park bench beneath a tree. It was raining hard now, which had at least emptied the park of tourists and picnickers, affording him a little privacy, but his baseball cap and hoodie did little to keep him dry. A cold stream of rain speckled his neck from the leafy canopy above him and soaked into his clothes but, lost in thought, he barely noticed it. The sky had chosen a fine moment to fall in, he thought morosely.  
  
After an agonising stand-off, the initial panic had subsided, replaced with the duller, darker feeling of hopelessness. He had given up waiting for Carrie, realising finally that his presence was oppressive to her. He withdrew, knowing she would not be there when he got back. In his head, the two halves of him fought a bitter battle. There had to be a way to rescue the situation, to redeem himself. To calm the storm he had caused. No, there didn't "have" to be a way, his pessimist sneered at him. Sometimes relationships fail. Sometimes it's someone's fault, and they don't get to expect a way back. This time it was definitely his fault. Despair and seething self-loathing raked furrows down his back.  
  
His phone jerked him out of his unhappy reverie. Luke. Shit. His publicist was usually an easygoing, discreet chap, unflappable and well capable of dealing with the flood of work surrounding Tom and his career. He had taken Tom's relationship with Taylor in his stride (though he had extracted a promise from Tom, after it was all over, that it really was over), and to his credit he had expressed only mild relief when Tom had met Carrie. He was, all things considered, a remarkably amiable fellow. This would not be an amiable conversation.

"Don't start, Luke. Please. Just... please," Tom sighed.  
"What in God's name were you thinking?" Luke demanded.  
"I wasn't thinking. Isn't that obvious? Do you think I would have done it if I was? D'you think I thought, 'Let's see, shall I make my girlfriend cry and destroy the best relationship I've ever had'?"  
"And is there any particular reason you thought it would be appropriate for the person in charge of your press to find out....in the press?" Luke's tone was uncharacteristically acid.  
"Well, what happened, you see -" Tom's voice rose in temper -"...was that first I got bawled out by my brother in front of the great and good of the film industry, and then I fucked up my relationship, and then I got shot by a fucking psychotic lunatic. So there wasn't really time to update you on events."  
"Cut the attitude," Luke snapped. "I'm trying to do my job, which is to protect you from shit like this, in case you've forgotten, and you've made it bloody difficult. Not to mention, didn't that woman humiliate you enough last time? Thought you'd go back for more, did you? I never took you for a masochist. CHRIST, Tom."  
At the other end of the phone, the rain filling his running shoes, Luke's client maintained a surly silence.  
"Months have passed, mate," Luke said, more gently. "Any time between then and yesterday would have been better than me finding out in the gossip pages. A bit of warning. That's how I do damage limitation."  
"I know," said Tom miserably. "I just... didn't think it would come up."  
"This isn't like you. You're not usually careless."  
"I'm sorry. Okay?"  
Luke sighed heavily.  
"...Okay. Look... we'll handle it. Just... keep away from any questions. I'll figure it out." Luke, for once, did not know how he was going to figure it out.

"How is Carrie, anyway?"  
There was no answer, and Luke glanced at his phone screen.  
"Tom?"  
"Heartbroken. She's heartbroken." Tom's voice was a monotone.  
"Yeah. I can imagine. And... how are you holding up?"  
Tom didn't know how to answer that.  
"She hates me. I don't blame her."  
"Give her time. Perhaps it can be repaired."  
"Luke - keep this off her. Please. She's upset enough, she doesn't need people hounding her, and she doesn't need to see it in her face everywhere. Whatever you need to do. Just keep it away from her."  
"I'll do what I can - of course. But, look, I'm not a miracle worker. There is going to be some coverage. We can try and keep it from dragging on, I can pull in some favours. But she is going to see some of it. It's just the nature of the beast."  
Tom nodded silently.  
"Why don't you come into the office later or tomorrow, and we'll go through our options? Have a look at your diary, I'll text you some times."  
"Okay. Thanks, Luke. And... sorry."  



	7. Chapter 7

_My head's a mess. I wanted to be out of there so badly. And then when I started packing my things, the tears came again. I was so happy here. I thought I had finally found something like home, and now I was willingly dismantling it, because he had done something unforgivable. If I stayed, could we pretend it hadn't happened? Could we just swerve around it? No. I'd feel like a coward, and he'd end up despising me for being so craven. I still love him, but I hate him. I hate his guts. I'm disgusted by him but, worst of all, I still want him. I don't know where I'm going to go, I never had a plan B. I didn't think I needed one. Everything was so perfect - he was so perfect. And it turns out he was lying the whole time. I guess he thought the rules didn't apply to him. The whole thing was nothing more than an illusion._

_Was he laughing at me? Congratulating himself on getting away with it? Jesus, have they both been laughing at me? And how do I know that was the only time? I think maybe I should go somewhere new, somewhere where no-one gives a shit about the love lives of Taylor Swift and my cruel, careless ex-boyfriend (god, that word... it feels obscene), where I don't have to see their faces on the newsstands._

_I just know I have to get out of here before he gets back. If I see him again, I'll either scratch his eyes out or start to forgive him. I don't know which would be worse._

~~~~~

Carrie walked in a daze. The rain had started to fall as she left, and she had not brought an umbrella. She had not packed much - the task had started to sicken her as she aimlessly examined the mementoes of the life that had so abruptly ended, and the things she chose were practical and without any emotional value at all. Nevertheless, the rain started to weigh down her clothes and her bag. She had not called a cab, because she had no idea where she was going. The streets were deserted, and the sky darkened to gunmetal in the worsening storm.

As she walked, unwelcome images stung her like stones from a playground bully. Tom, dancing with her. The night they met. The night they got home from LA, after the trauma of the shooting. The first time he had introduced her to his parents. The first time he had met hers, and had been so nervous that he had overcompensated enormously - him and her mother talking Shakespeare and Chaucer. Taylor, patronising her, insulting him. Yesterday, up in the hayfield on the heath, with strawberries, when everything was beautiful. Taylor, dancing with him. (Her fists clenched at this memory.) All those times in bed, in dressing rooms, in fields out in the countryside, in the shower, on hotel roofs above oblivious crowds, on the floor of their - his - home. Taylor pulling his hand, talking in his ear. The night he had saved her life, kept her safe, hidden her from those monsters. This morning, bed, and toast, and tickling, and his hands on her, before it all got ripped apart. Maybe she could pretend, rewind, reset. Carry on regardless. But they'd both know. They couldn't unknow. She'd hate him and he'd despise her, silently, secretly, behind fixed smiles. Taylor. Kissing him. Taking him from her, not because she wanted him, just to show she could. The rain on her face was hot now, and Carrie realised the tears were hers, not the sky's. She walked, stumbling, and the tears streamed down her face as she shivered violently in the cold, relentless downpour.

She had no idea where she was. Thunder barked above her as a lightning crack opened up the sky. Her feet had steered her aimlessly for an hour and she had followed them to a street she did not know. As she passed a bench - backless, little more than a plinth - she stopped and sank onto it. She could not see, could not hear over the spiteful spattering of the rain. Her frozen clothes stuck to her skin and her bag lay at her feet, a sodden lump. She didn't care. She dropped her head to her knees and cried without inhibition, indifferent to what she might look like to a passerby.

"Carrie??" His voice, the one she wanted most and least in all the world, seemed to come from nowhere. It was like a hideous joke. She shuddered and raised her head blindly. He crouched before her and his face swam in her blurred field of vision. All she could focus on were the familiar blue eyes, slanted with concern. His hands gripped her arms as she swayed.  
"What are you doing here? What's happened?"  
She stared at him, her damp eyes trying to focus through the tears. Black suit. White shirt. His hand cupped her face, and his black hair gleamed wetly in the torrential rain. Relief washed violently over her.  
"Lachie..." Her voice cracked and she slumped against him, sobbing uncontrollably.  
"Does Tom know you're here? Carrie, for God's sake, what's happened? Talk to me, please..."  
He couldn't get any sense from the tiny, sodden young woman who pressed her heartbreak into his chest, a wet handful of his shirt clenched in her fist. Embarrassed and appalled, he wrapped an arm around her, trying to keep her warm in the downpour.  
"Alright... It's okay now. Calm down, it's okay. Let me get you out of here." He hauled her rucksack onto his back, and scooped her up into his arms. He was a full foot taller than her, and even soaked through, she didn't weigh a great deal. He bundled her close to him, her face buried in his shoulder, and carried her out of the rain.


	8. Chapter 8

It had been a wretched day. Another war of attrition with a fractured, bickering cast. Money was desperately tight, and as a result the production values of this latest vehicle were woeful. Lachie squirmed every time he thought about it. And of course, he was in the hotseat. As the theatre's director, the failures would fall at his feet. He knew they would be lucky to find critical favour with this piece. What the outside world didn't realise was that there was a Board. A group of people with at least as much - more - power of decision-making as him. They had their connections, their friends, their ambitious young relatives and their beneficiaries, and all of these dubious, grasping spectres had to be satisfied whenever the time came to choose the theatre's next endeavour. It seemed the cast didn't realise that either, and they had lately graduated from sulky to openly mutinous. Lachie was at his wits' end. He had known this was not the play for his theatre. (His theatre - it did not feel like that. His position felt like a nominal one.) In a more agile company, or a bigger one with deeper pockets, it could have worked. Just. But it was too set-dependent, the characters were not developed enough, for a middle-of-the-road (there - he admitted it) company like theirs to reform.  
  
Lachie had always done his best to build his reputation on his own work, not on his surname. Nevertheless, it was a distinctive name and it came with its own challenges. Those who wrote him off as the lesser, coat-tailing brother; those who thought everything should have been easy for a man in his position. Of course, plenty was, but in this, the profession that made him feel most alive, and most individually himself, he felt stunted. The doors that opened to him easily were not the ones he wanted to walk through, and it was not easy to prove his worth to the guardians of the more appealing prizes. As for his present situation, Tom had recently offered to back the theatre, but Lachie could not accept. It wasn't just the need to build his own success. Perhaps if he were able to believe in this particular project, it would be easy to take the cash injection. As a loan, if not a gift. The hard truth was that Lachie knew this theatre didn't deserve to succeed in its present state. He didn't want Tom to put his name to it, and he didn't want to be the man of poor judgment or scant integrity who asked him to.  
  
These were the thoughts that consumed him as he strode through the rain. He never carried an umbrella. He didn't mind the downpour; it suited his black mood, and made him feel more tangible than the depressing slog that his working day had become. He liked the way the streets emptied in the rain. Dawdlers, tourists and commuters fled like rats from the light, scuttling into doorways and pubs, and he could tread the streets in a straight line, following the liquid trail of light that the streetlamps unfurled along the flagstones. He was surprised, therefore, to find his brother's girlfriend sobbing her lungs into her hands on a bench around the corner from his Islington home.

~~~~~

It was ironic, Carrie thought bitterly, that of all the people in the world, it should be Tom's twin that rescued her. The universe had a really special sense of humour.  
  
She huddled in Lachie's living room, her hands warmed by the mug of hot, sweet tea he had made for her. Her clothes dripped a puddle of rainwater on the hardwood floor, which he pretended not to see, and the bathtowel around her shoulders was already drenched. Handsomely framed theatre posters lined the walls; abstract, closed, stylish images that prodded one's curiosity while revealing nothing at all about the stories they promised. She had always found theatre posters maddening in that way. The room was double height, a large open living room and sleek, expensive kitchenette, with the rest of the flat tucked away upstairs on a mezzanine above the back half of the room. It was an urbane apartment; contained, stylish, occupied but not really lived in - the quintessential bachelor pad. Lachie sat on a footstool opposite her, chin resting on his hands as he waited for her to explain. So far she had not said a word.  
  
She was ashamed and confused. She couldn't even remember clearly what had happened. She knew she'd left home - Tom's home, not hers anymore - and walked through the rain. She knew she'd been crying, and she knew she had gotten disorientated and exhausted. And then Lachie had found her in a hysterical state, half-dead from the cold and rain.  
  
"Let me call Tom," Lachie suggested. "Let him know you're here." She shook her head vehemently. He rubbed his hair with a towel he'd snatched from the downstairs bathroom, his brows furrowed with concern. She avoided his gaze.  
"You've got to tell me something, Carrie. Come on. Please."  
She took a breath, willing her voice not to shake.  
"Tom. He kissed Taylor. It's over. We're... I left."  
He dropped his chin and stared at her in disbelief. "When?? I thought he hadn't seen her for months."  
"The night of the... in LA. Before everything that happened. When I was upset, and you came to find me. He kissed her while we were next door. You didn't see the papers? Nice big double spread. No getting away from it," she remarked bleakly.  
"I've been at work, I... Jesus. Fucking hell." Lachie pushed a hand through his dark hair. "Carrie, that's wretched. I'm so sorry. It's just...shit. What the hell is wrong with him?" He took both of her hands and squeezed them. She shook her head mutely, and shivered. He noticed, and tipped his head to the side with concern.  
"Look, you'd better change. You'll catch your death sitting around like that." He rose and disappeared up to the mezzanine. A minute later she heard him rummaging in drawers upstairs.

~~~~~

_He's been up there for a while. God knows what he's going to come back with. He's about twice my height, so we can be pretty sure the results will be ridiculous._  
  
_I've never been to Lachie's home, although he's often been round to ours in the months since we got back from LA. It's weird being here. We've become good friends though, and I've come to value it very much. Now I know him better, I can see he and Tom are a good complement to each other. Lachie tempers Tom's earnestness, calms him down whenever he gets into a neurotic spiral about work, and reminds him that it isn't all about him. Tom takes the edges off his twin's cynicism, gets him to actually care about the world around him rather than just taking what he wants from it, and is able to persuade him to see people and situations through more generous eyes. Tom chooses his words carefully, while Lachie has a mouth like a gutter. Tom is the one who wants to make the world a better place, and wants everyone to do their best. (A shame he couldn't, in the end, apply that rule to himself or our relationship.) One to one, though, Lachie is the gentler one. He doesn't ask the impossible of himself or other people, but he will make time for them. He's the one who will notice when someone's having a hard time. I'm glad of his friendship - though I wish it could have been anyone else, anyone at all, that found me tonight._  
  
_They do get along tremendously, anyway, the LA episode aside, and he's become one of my firmest friends. But it feels uncomfortable to be here - or rather, for the first time I visit to be when I'm in this pathetic state. I feel like an intruder, and a soggy one at that._  
  
_He just called, "Come on up." I looked up and he was leaning over the balcony. I thought he was going to bring the things down. God. I can't tramp muddy footprints through his house - as if I haven't made enough of a nuisance of myself. This is excruciating. I wish I were anywhere, anywhere else. Fuck. Maybe... would it be awful to sneak out?_


	9. Chapter 9

Carrie took off her shoes and socks, got up wearily and padded up the staircase barefoot, burning with awkwardness and embarrassment.

She reached the top of the stairs, and he turned to face her, holding a pile of neatly folded clothes.  
"They'll be a bit big but you can...er... roll them up, I guess," he suggested.  
"Thanks," she said in a small voice. "Sorry you had to look after me, and deal with..." She stared at the floor and shrugged tightly, ashamed. "You must think I'm a headcase."  
"Not in the least," he replied mildly. "I'm sorry he's been such a complete wanker, again. You deserve a lot better from him."  
Carrie's mind flashed back to the last time Lachie had had to mop her up - the night they met. Tom, and Taylor. A lump took shape in her throat.  
"I'm going to tear him a new one this time," Lachie continued grimly. "I promise you, he won't know what's - hey...!" He saw Carrie start to well up, and crossed the room to her quickly.  
"Hey, hey, hey. Come on." He folded her into his arms, and stroked her hair, as she tried to will herself to stop crying.  
"Listen," he soothed. "I know he's cocked up, and I know you feel wrecked right now. But he loves you completely. He's been a fucking stupid tosser, but he really does. The only reason he will have tried to hide what happened is blind fear of losing you."  
She shook his head against his chest, her voice muffled. "Why did he do it in the first place?"  
"I don't know. Because he was pissed off, or just pissed? Because for a moment there he was just an absolute shit?" He sighed and squeezed her shoulders. "I know what I think of him right now, and it isn't pretty. But I know what he means to you, too. I think you need to talk to him. Don't let it go like this. Stay here tonight - I'll take the sofa - and call him tomorrow, or go and see him. Don't give up on him."  
Carrie was silent for a moment.  
"I can't." She looked up at him, and her eyes were clear. "I can't do that. He couldn't have picked a worse person to hurt me with. And now it's going to play out in public. I can't stand it. And I can't forgive him. If I did I don't think I could forgive myself."  
"You might feel differently tomorrow."  
She shook her head and closed her eyes miserably.  
"I'm going to be completely humiliated. And it'll go on for weeks. And he'll go back to his movie star life, and I'll be some girl he fucked over and discarded for Taylor Swift."  
"Come on. You know you mean more to him than that."  
"I can't rely on anything I thought I knew. If I meant so much to him he wouldn't have done it."  
Lachie chewed his lip. "Look, you're not alone in this. As long as you need me to be a friend, I'll be there. Don't think everyone you know is just going to take sides and abandon you."  
She looked up at him reflectively and nodded, swallowing hard. She let herself lean against him, and he hugged her hard.

~~~~~

"Why don't you change and get warm, at least," he encouraged, and started towards the stairs. "I'll be -"  
She grasped his hand, and he turned and met her eyes. She tugged his hand slowly back toward her. He raised his brows, and she stared back simply. Her eyes were black and opaque, but disarming in their frankness.  
"Carrie..." he warned. "Let's not do something we'll both regret."  
She took a step towards him, still holding his hand.  
"Would you regret it?" she whispered.  
"I think you would," he replied. She thought for a moment.  
"I regret not kissing you in LA that night. When he was busy with... her."  
"We've been here before," he said tersely. "I'm not him... and I don't want to be the fallback when something goes wrong. If you don't want me for me, don't use me."  
It sounded harsher than he meant it to, but it was, nonetheless, what he meant. She was silent, taken aback, and her eyes shimmered.  
"Why do you think I don't want you for you?" she asked quietly.  
He had no answer.  
"You're kind, and funny, and spontaneous. You're not afraid of anything. And," she paused, "you always notice if I'm not okay."  
"I always notice you, fullstop," he replied, almost under his breath, but he looked tense. She absorbed his reply silently, her eyes locked on his.  
"So why do you think I don't want you for you?" she repeated.  
"Because I'm not him, and until today he was who you wanted."  
"I don't want him any more. Not after what he did."  
Lachie said nothing, but his fingers played with Carrie's.  
"If we do this, we can't undo it," he warned.  
"I know," she whispered.

Lachie's hands surrounded her face, and he leaned down towards her. He didn't kiss her, but looked at her hard, and his thumbs stroked the line of her cheekbones. She felt her breath curl around his, and wondered that this man, who looked so exactly like Tom, felt so unlike him. She admitted to herself that some illicit part of her had wanted him from the night she met him, and had set it aside for sanity's sake, and for Tom's sake. That had been then, when Tom had been the man she had trusted him to be.

Now, her thoughts rushing against each other, she considered the possibility that Lachie would be kind where Tom had been cruel; present where Tom was so often absent; that Lachie might be careful of her heart where Tom had been cavalier. She allowed her hands to stray to the back of his neck, to the black hair that faded to fineness at the nape. He raised his eyebrows at her slowly. Now or never. She reached up, pulled his face close to hers, and her lips brushed his. Lachie held back for a second. Then he closed his eyes and, breathing hard, he kissed her urgently, crushing his arms around her. He tasted of liquorice, and Carrie knew that she had not imagined her desire for him.

~~~~~

The key clicked in the lock, and Tom let himself into the interior darkness. No-one home. He knew that wasn't going to change any time soon. The silence of the house taunted him, dangled his destructive stupidity before him like a stained piece of evidence.

The session with Luke had not been comforting. It had been a rigorous lesson in realism and crisis management. What was going to happen, what was unavoidable, and how he was going to deal with it, as dictated by Luke, who had decided, evidently, to take a firm hand with this particular situation. It was going to be excruciating, humiliating and unedifying, and he had no choice but to face it. It was going to be painful and embarrassing for Carrie too, and she was going to hate him for it. More than she already did.

Tom crossed the hallway to the kitchen, reached for a tumbler and a bottle, and poured himself a whisky. He drained it slowly, and wondered where she was now. Taking the glass and the bottle, he retreated to the den, glancing occasionally at his phone for messages that did not come.


	10. Chapter 10

_I have no idea what I'm doing._   
  
_He's lying here next to me. He doesn't know what I'm thinking. Now, though, I know his thoughts. I don't know what to do._   
  
_It was so different with him. With Tom, it was playful, animal - we always had the sense of having all the time in the world, and luxuriating in it, trying out every sensation. Sneaking off like schoolchildren just because we could. Making a game of dodging the paparazzi. Before it fell to pieces, we loved so easily._   
  
_Lachie is so careful. Completely, intensely focused on me. It's a little unsettling. So strange that Tom is the earnest one and Lachie the irreverent, puckish one. In bed they are both exactly the opposite. There was something protective about the way that he held me. Like I was some precious and volatile element. Like he wanted to be completely present, and remember everything in case it was the only time we ever had. I knew. It was more than want. It feels ridiculous to say it, but I felt... revered. Adored. I realised that the easy cynicism is nothing more than the fabric he clothes himself in. They're more alike than they realise._   
  
_I kissed him, and he hesitated, then completely took control. He unbuttoned my wet clothes expertly and peeled them off me, and whipped a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around my shoulders. Then he took my face in his hands, looked at me seriously, and said, "Better." He picked me up, blanket and all, and carried me over to the bed, while I started to undo his shirt. It's a strange thing to go to bed with someone new whose face is identical to the one you're used to; I couldn't determine whether I was disquieted by it or completely at ease because of it. A truly strange thing, to navigate the terrain of a new personality while running your fingers over seemingly familiar bones and dimples. He looked the same, but somehow the surface of him, the exact same topography, felt completely different. I should have felt appalled... but I didn't. His hands were hard and firm and curious; they grazed my breasts and my thighs, and his fingers dipped into the nooks behind my knees, the arch behind my back, the edges of my elbows and the exact line near my ears where my hairline meets my face. I could feel the curiosity in his fingertips; he wanted to know everything. His arms surrounded me completely as he flooded into me, and his face, those changeable blue eyes, that serious brow, dipped close to mine; and his eyes were like a fire in an oilfield. I have never felt safer with anyone. Not even Tom. I knew that in that moment Lachie would take on legions for me._   
  
_Tom once called me precious, used the word like a weapon against me. Lachie IS precious; there is something rare and wonderful about him. And I feel troubled and sick at myself, because I know I don't deserve him, and I suspect I can't do him any good. I wish I could be as sure of my feelings for him as I know he is of his. He looked at me, not through me but into me, and over every curve and sharp edge I have, and I saw love there, or something like it. And then I remembered that night, the night the horrible groundwork was laid for this night, and the way he looked at me then, and stepped back for my sake and his brother's. Tonight he didn't. And I'm scared I'll hurt him dreadfully._

_~~~~~_

_I'm going to save this. I'll redeem myself in her eyes if it kills me. She has to know how I feel. How vastly I regret the hateful, repulsive thing I did. If I have to offer up everything I have, my whole reputation, all professional standing, I'll do it. I'll get down on my knees on the stage of the National if I have to. I know it's the whisky talking, but it's not just the whisky talking. She is the only thing I've ever known that truly felt like home. She amazes me. A universe in a girl the size of a dot. And if I fucked it up, I can unfuck it. I'll offer her whatever she needs, and I'll deliver on it. I will because I have to. I love her, and I won't give up on her, even if she has given up on me._   
  
_Not tonight though. Too many of these. The bottle's three quarters empty, and I may be drunk but I'm not stupid. Showing up drunk, slurring my devotion to her won't endear me to her. I cut a hole in her heart, and I have to find a way to repair it. I'll work out what I want to say, and I'll find the right moment._   
  
_Luke keeps phoning. I've put my phone on silent. I can't take any more of it right now. Mum phoned earlier too. I ignored it. I just can't explain myself again. Of course she's just concerned about me, but I know what she'll say. It's the last thing I need. Yes, Mum, I screwed it up. Yes, I know it's my fault. That much, I figured out already. Yeah, well, she hates me, Mum. Yep, yep, you're right, yep, I know. Bloody hell. What's the point?_   
  
_I think there's someone creeping around outside. I heard the gravel crunching. Probably another fucking photographer. I can't stand this. I feel like my head's in a vice and everyone's taking turns at the lever._   
  
_I need some advice, and some company. Someone who won't judge me. If I stay here I'll drain the bottle, and I'll open the next one. No good._


	11. Chapter 11

Lachie wound his arms around the tiny, black haired girl beside him, and kissed her hair. She curled over, nosing into his ribcage and stretching her arms across his chest. They hadn't spoken for half an hour. Just laid here in constant contact, coiling into kisses and wandering hands, and then exhaling into this dreamlike state. Part of him wanted to tell her what it meant to him. Part of him knew she already knew. And the dark part of him knew it was hopeless.

He thought for a moment about the possibility of Tom finding out, and dread chilled his blood. That couldn't happen. Ever. They would have to keep it utterly secret. Tom would not understand how seriously he felt about Carrie. He would see only another betrayal - which, Lachie admitted uncomfortably to himself, it was. Perhaps the worst yet.

He closed his arms tighter around her shoulders, and she pressed a sleepy kiss into his ribcage. "Lachie." Her voice was a whisper, and dangerously believable. What if she really did want this - him? He buried his hands in her hair and -

BRRRRRRRRNG.

The doorbell shrilled through the apartment and she started violently. Lachie's hands stilled her shoulders and he put a kiss on the frown that crossed her forehead.  
"Stay here, keep warm. I'll go. Back in a sec."  
He trod slowly downstairs shrugging on a grey terry dressing gown. Rubbing his hair into some sort of intentional shape he clicked the lock on the door and swung it open.

"Lachie - are you busy? I need... can I..?"  
He stepped back involuntarily as his brother pushed unstably into his apartment. Tom had been drinking - his feet were unsteady, and Lachie could tell it had been a whisky session. Tom's sandy hair was mussed and wet from the rain, and he was having trouble focusing.  
"Hey, steady on... easy. Slow down there." He barred his unkempt twin's path, and resteered him towards the couch. Above him, a wide-eyed, frozen Carrie stared down from the balcony. He returned her gaze, shaking his head slightly and gesturing subtly with one hand for her to keep her head below the balustrade.  
"I fucked it up," muttered Tom blearily into his brother's elbow. "She was everything I wanted, and I was f..fucking stupid for one moment and I destroyed it. She hates me."  
"Let's just sit down for a moment, eh," murmured Lachie. "Just here... there you go."  
"I know, but I have to... I have to fix it. You... I have to make it right."  
"You will. Just give it time."  
"I have to make it right," Tom insisted, gripping Lachie's shoulder and leaning uncertainly towards him.  
"Alright - okay. I hear you. Look. Sleep on it tonight. Talk to her tomorrow," Lachie soothed. "You need a good night's sleep. Let me call you a cab -"  
Tom pushed Lachie's shoulder and cut him off. "Nonono, I need to talk to you... you have to help me."  
"I will, alright? I'll help. It's alright. But you can't do anything in this state. You're off your face. I could give you the best advice in the world and you wouldn't remember it. Sleep it off, and we'll figure it out tomorrow. Let me -"  
"Can I stay here?" Tom circled an arm around his brother's shoulders, leaning into him.  
"Er, look... it'd be fine but I actually have someone coming over...?"  
Above him, on the balcony, Carrie's eyes were frantic and she gestured wildly.  
"Give me your phone." Gently, he prised Tom's iPhone from his grip, and began to set up an Uber journey. Tom swayed, sank onto the sofa and pressed his hands to his eyes.  
"Nnnngggrrrrrhh. What...why did I.... fuck. FUCK. She was perfect and I fucked it. Fucking stupid piece of shit. FUCK." He balled his fists against his eyes and leaned over his knees unsteadily. Lachie ran a reassuring hand over his brother's back, shrugging helplessly at Carrie.  
"Her..." Tom put his head between his knees. Lachie rubbed his hand over Tom's back.  
"They're... wh..." He exhaled hard. "Was she here?"  
"What?" The question blindsided Lachie.  
"Her shoes. They're..." Tom looked up at Lachie, and leaned back suddenly, the blood draining from his face. He staggered to his feet.  
The damp white running shoes, wet socks stuffed haphazardly into them, glared accusingly at the two brothers.  
"Where is she?" Tom's voice was unsteady, but his eyes were focused. They burned into Lachie, and he looked away. For however many times he had screwed up, he had never been able to lie.  
"Carrie...?" Tom spun on his heel, and directed his voice uncertainly up into the apartment.

Stood back from the balcony, she froze; stricken, lost. Her clothes, balled up in the corner of the room, were soaked. Either she went downstairs in a dressing gown, or Lachie's clothes, or hid and hoped for him to calm down. She knew Tom in this mood - rare but ungovernable. He'd come looking. Keeping her head low, she clenched her fists, reached tortuously for the clothes Lachie had brought her, and pulled them on, rolling up the jeans at the ankles.  
"Carrie!" He was yelling at full volume now and his voice bounced sharply off the angles of the apartment.

She stepped forward to the balustrade and looked down into the face of the man she still loved. She looked into his eyes, and he looked up into hers. And he knew. She could see it. She started desperately for the stairs, but he lurched to the front door, wrenched it open and disappeared into the rain.


	12. Chapter 12

Carrie and Lachie stared at each other, horrified. She descended the stairs numbly, and sank onto the sofa, putting her head in her hands. Lachie watched her, lost for words. What now? Was this the part where he lost her, no sooner than she had finally come to him? Or would they brazen it out, braving his brother's wrath and heartbreak and everyone else's disgust and disapproval? His brother... Guilt crashed at the walls of his heart. He had never seen Tom in that state over a girl - he had always maintained a degree of detachment. Lachie had strayed into Tom's territory before, but had always told himself Tom's career meant more to him than any woman; that he would doubtless break the heart of every girl he allowed into his world. That was how he justified it to himself. He could not do that this time. But then... He turned the situation over in his mind. Tom HAD broken Carrie's heart. He was the betrayer this time.   
  
The sight of Carrie tying her shoelaces interrupted his thoughts.   
"Where are you going?"  
She looked up. "I have to talk to him. I can't just leave it like that."  
He crouched before her and stilled her hands. "Don't go."  
She started to protest but he continued. "He'll be absolutely livid. Believe me, you really don't want to be the first person he sees. I'll go. Let me talk to him first."  
Scorn crossed her face. "I'm not scared of him, Lachie - Jesus, what do you think he's going to do? He's not like that."  
"That's not what I mean. He's angry and hurt, and you know how stubborn he is. If he sees you first, he'll blame you completely, he'll refuse to see any reason, and that'll be that. He'll make his mind up and hate you forever."  
That disquieted her. "So... what, you'd rather he hate you?"  
"He's my brother. He'll have to forgive me eventually. If nothing else, Mum would insist upon it."  
Carrie smiled weakly. He put his hands on her knees, and looked at her seriously. "Trust me." He stood up, and drew her to her feet.  
"I won't be too long. Will you stay here? Please?"  
She nodded, and he hugged her, kissing her forehead.  
"Nothing's changed for me," he said into her ear.   
  
Carrie chewed her nails nervously while Lachie went upstairs to dress. He reappeared in jeans and a white t-shirt, and pulled on a grey hoodie.   
"The look on his face..." Carrie said, unhappily. She shook her head slowly in dismay.  
"I know." Lachie didn't want to go over it. He prayed she would still be there when he got back.  
"Do you think you can calm him down?"  
"I hope so," he replied, and stepped out into the rain.

~~~~~

_Piece of shit bastard. Fucking opportunistic, cynical arsehole. He couldn't help himself._   
  
_He knew, he fucking knew what she meant to me. I told him I was going to propose to her - I actually asked him for advice about it. He couldn't have been more encouraging - "definitely go for it, you guys are perfect together", the whole nine yards. And he's literally taken the first opportunity to slide in and sleep with her. Brotherly love - yeah. Sure. He's sharked every woman I've ever loved, it's like he bloody lies in wait. He has no moral centre at all. I've learned the hard way not to trust him. And I've let it slide when they were casual relationships. But Carrie... He knew she was different. He knew. It's unforgivable. He can't talk his way out this time._   
  
_And her... She makes me feel like a villain, the lowest of the low, for a stupid kiss that was months ago, and then she sleeps with him of all people. It's beyond revenge; it's unutterably spiteful. If she wanted to pay me back, she could have picked anyone but him. I didn't know she had it in her to be so vicious. She's not who I thought she was at all. They're dead to me, both of them. I don't ever want to see either of them again._

~~~~~

The rain had slowed to a gentle drizzle when Lachie climbed out of the cab at Tom's place. All the lights were off. He couldn't have gone straight to bed, he was in no state to sleep. He would probably have kept drinking, Lachie thought. Perhaps he was round the back in the garden. He took a breath, and tried the doorbell. Behind the door, it echoed through the hollows of the house. He listened for footsteps, but heard only silence. He rang again.   
  
He took a step back, turned around and chewed his lip. Perhaps he had walked all the way back. He'd have gotten drenched if so, he hadn't had an umbrella. He pictured his twin, usually so composed, splashing through the streets furiously. Tom's temper was as explosive as it was rare. By the time he got back he might have walked off some of the anger. Or maybe he'd gone on a bender. The pubs would be closed now but maybe he'd gone somewhere in town. He could be hours if so. Would most bars let him in, in that state? His star status might swing it, Lachie thought ruefully. Propping up some Mayfair hotel bar, perhaps, or glowering at the staff at Annabel's. Lachie pulled his hood up over his dark hair, and pulled out his phone to text Carrie.  
"He's not back yet. I'll wait for him. Don't worry about staying up for me. Get yourself some sleep."  
He started to type something else at the end of the text but caught himself, and deleted it.  
"I'll be back as soon as I can. xx"  
  
He sat down on the cold stone of the porch, leaning against the front door, and checked his watch. Even if Tom had just decided to walk home, he would be a while. Lachie stuffed his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, stretched out his legs and settled down to wait.


	13. Chapter 13

_I guess Lachie will be gone a while. I hope he can talk Tom down a bit. God, I hope Tom hasn't done anything stupid. He was already a mess when he showed up._   
  
_What a car crash. All my anger's gone now. The view is pretty different once you come plummeting down from the moral high ground and land on your face. I guess he's feeling pretty much how I did. God, I hope he doesn't think I did it just to wound him - I know I was angry but I'm not that cruel. I feel sick about it. What he must think of me. Christ. If only, if ONLY Lachie hadn't opened the door._   
  
_My head's in a whirl. I never meant for this to happen, and I don't know what to make of it. I thought I didn't want Tom anymore. Now, the thought of losing him... I can't. When he looked at me tonight, it was like the light died in his eyes. I wanted so badly to go to him. God, what a fool I am. A few months ago I nearly lost him forever. And now, to let something like this fuck everything up... So stupid. Jesus. But I still can't get over that photo of him and Taylor. None of this would have happened if he hadn't done that. Why did he have to kiss her?_   
  
_And Lachie. I saw the way he looked at me earlier. He's serious about me. And... I can't pretend I don't feel anything for him. There's something really special about him. I didn't realise quite how much until tonight. If it weren't for Tom, I think Lachie could make me happy. I don't know, maybe he still could. Maybe he should. Or maybe that would compound everything and make it ten times worse. I don't want to be the wedge that destroys their relationship forever._   
  
_It's all such a mess. I don't know what to do._

~~~~~

Lachie was starting to fade into sleep when he heard the crunch of footsteps stamping through the gravel. The rain had intensified again, and he could feel it seeping through the cloth of his trousers from the stone of the porch beneath him. He shook himself, and got to his feet as Tom rounded the corner. He stopped dead, seeing his brother on his doorstep.   
"Tom." Lachie shook his head in regret and approached him. "I'm so, so sorry. It wasn't planned, it just -"  
"Shut up." The anger in Tom's eyes was cold.   
"The last thing we meant was to hurt you." Lachie took another step towards him. "I found her in the rain, she was in a bad way, and horribly upset. I was trying to persuade her to talk to you. I didn't plan what happened, but she told me you were over. I wouldn't... I wouldn't have gone there if I didn't have real feelings for her -"  
"Like you had for Taylor? And Kat? And Susanna?" Tom retorted. "You've gone for every girl I've ever felt anything for, every chance you got. It's like a sick game for you. What the hell did I ever do to you? You knew how serious I was about her. Couldn't help yourself, could you?"  
Lachie felt his temper rise to meet Tom's fury, and he retaliated with ringing contempt. "Why don't we remind ourselves how we got here? That's right, you were ever so serious about her. You treated her impeccably, didn't y-"  
The crack to his jaw caught him completely by surprise. Lachie staggered, clutched his face and, reeling, stared up at his brother in astonishment.  
"You fucking traitor." Tom stood with his fists clenched at his sides, looking back at Lachie with open hatred. Lachie put a hand up but Tom grabbed him by the front of his hoodie, and slammed him into the brick wall behind him.   
  
Lachie braced his hands against Tom's shoulders and tried to force him away from him. They were evenly matched in size, but Tom was incandescent with rage, and Lachie couldn't break his grip. They twisted and struggled, Lachie still pinioned against the wall, and Tom smashed his fist into Lachie's face again. The dark haired twin choked in pain as blood poured from his nose.  
"Tom -"  
"You knew how much I loved her," Tom accused, panting. "And you did it anyway, because you don't give a shit." Tom jammed his knee into his brother's abdomen, and Lachie dropped to his knees with a strangled cough.  
"Please," he croaked, but Tom's fist ploughed through him again, a final blow that sent him sprawling across the driveway. He lay still and face down for a moment, his black hair dishevelled. Slowly he pushed himself up, sitting up painfully and brushing the gravel from his clothes. He looked up at his brother in defeat, and Tom looked back at him remorselessly, his blue eyes blazing.  
"You're not my brother. Stay away from me."  
He turned, let himself into the house, and closed the door behind him.   
  
Behind him, there was a silent movement in the bushes. In the chaos of the scuffle, the crunch of the gravel, the shouting, the steady flush of the rain and Lachie's anguished grunts had masked the clicks of the shutter, and the floodlights had saved the photographer from having to betray himself with his flashgun. God bless the paranoia of the A-list. He owned, without modesty or bravado, that he was one of the best in his field, and over the course of twenty years secreted in hotel corridors, cupboards, behind cars and indeed in the front and back gardens of the rich and infamous, he had become an expert at packing up without a sound. He had done this for so long that he no longer felt the cold rain creeping through his clothes, or the cramp that set into his knees through hours of crouching in one awkward spot.   
  
He thought, with no small measure of satisfaction, of the fee this exclusive scoop would net him. It could be nearly double what he'd get for the kind of stars from whom one expected scandal. He had hit paydirt. He hadn't had a real holiday for a while. Perhaps the Maldives. He'd enjoy the place for once, put his feet up on a handsome yacht instead of taking pictures of them. As the dishevelled young man nursed his bleeding face a few metres away, the rain blurring the blood on his jaw, the snapper took a few more shots, then gathered his tools and crept silently away.


	14. Chapter 14

The flat was dark when Lachie got home. Carrie had taken his advice - or she had left, he thought bitterly. It had been a painful walk back. His phone had been smashed in the drama back there, so he couldn't call a cab, and instead limped home slowly, picking gravel out of his eyebrows.

He pulled himself torturously up the stairs, and sat down gingerly on the bed, grunting in pain as he bent to unlace his sneakers. The bed creaked in the darkness behind him, and Lachie turned. So she had stayed.  
"Lachie... what time is it?" she whispered drowsily.  
"It's late," he whispered back. "Shh... it's okay. Go back to sleep."  
He peeled off his socks and jeans, and braced himself to pull his t-shirt over his head. Behind him, Carrie rolled towards him, and circled her arms around his waist. He laid a hand over hers, and she kissed the small of his back. She pulled him backwards, and he winced and hissed in pain at the pressure as her hands met the exact, bruised spot on his belly where his brother's knee had buried itself.  
"What is it?" she asked, alarmed. Now she was awake, and sat up behind him.  
"Nothing, it's okay." He kept his face turned from her, but she switched the light on and pulled his shoulder to make him face her.

Her hand flew to her mouth as he turned. Lachie's lip was split, and there was blood around his nose and on his chin. One cheek was speckled with tiny cuts, and there were little stones embedded in some of them. His left eye was purple and swollen, and there were streaks of mud and blood on his white t-shirt, which he had pulled back down hastily over his bruised abdomen. His short black hair was dishevelled and mucky with damp and dust. Her hands went to his face pityingly.  
"Did Tom do this?!" she asked in a shaky voice. He nodded.  
"I've never seen him like that. Jesus... the damage we've done, Carrie." He stared at the floor.

She darted out of bed into the bathroom, and he heard her rummaging in the cupboard. She came back with cotton pads and antiseptic, and a cup of cold water.  
"Stay there," she instructed, and kissed his hands. She noticed his knuckles were unharmed. So he hadn't fought back. Her heart hurt. She dashed downstairs and boiled the kettle. When she came back she handed him a mug of steaming chamomile tea, and knelt on the bed next to him.  
"Drink that, it'll help. I'll try not to hurt you." She cleaned his face gently with the cool water, carefully brushing the bits of gravel from the wounds in his face, and disinfecting them. He didn't flinch but merely drank his tea in silence.

Carrie did the job quickly, and helped him out of his t-shirt. She peppered his face with a handful of gentle kisses, touching her lips to his forehead, his mouth, his cheeks, his nose and the bruises around his eye. Then she put her arms around him and steered him to lie down. He bit his lip and gave her a pensive look. His face was a picture of misery. She could see him searching for words, but none came.  
"We're not going to talk about this now," she whispered. "We'll figure it out tomorrow. Tonight you just need to sleep." He placed a hand on her cheek, still looking at her soberly, and she continued, "I'll be right here."  
The moon cast a blade of light across the bedclothes, and Carrie settled herself around him, her head on his chest and one arm around his waist as she slept.

Lachie didn't sleep, but lay watching the sky as the hours passed.

~~~~~

_Now I really am on my own._

_The backs of my hands are scraped and bloody. My blood, and his. I'm glad of the pain. It gives me something else to focus on._

_I didn't mean to lose it like that. I can't pretend I'm ashamed though. He deserved everything he got. He's pushed his luck for years, and expected me to be okay with it because he's my brother. I guess I allowed him to. But he went too far this time._

_How have I lost the two people I loved best in the world, over one kiss?_

_Did she need revenge that badly? It's almost as if they teamed up to get back at me. I don't know... maybe they did._

_I'm lost. I don't know what to do with myself. Can't sleep, can't think. The sun is coming up, and I wish it wouldn't. I don't want to face tomorrow. Yet... I wish this night was over. The thought of them together keeps going round and round in my head. I can't stand it. His hands on her, and her letting him... God, I feel sick. I don't want to think about her. I'm done. It's done. I can't ever look at her again._

_I daresay once she sees what my hands have done to him, whose affections she apparently prefers, she won't want anything more to do with me either._

~~~~~

Carrie slept badly. Ugly dreams raced through her, and she kept waking up in disorientation. She reached for Tom in the darkness - then remembered. She stretched her arm across his chest. His ribcage rose and fell softly.

"Lachie," she whispered. There was no answer. He was motionless, lost in sleep. She hoped his dreams were more peaceful than hers. She pressed a light kiss onto the side of his lean body. "I wish..." She hesitated, and stroked his skin with the flat of her hand.

"I should never have met you." The silence of the room roared back at her. She nestled against him restlessly, her fingers tracing a meandering path on his skin.

In the darkness, Lachie opened his eyes, though his body was still. He stared at the ceiling as Carrie drifted back into sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

He was gone when she woke up. The white sheets were thrown back in the morning sunlight. Small traces of blood stained the pillow where he had lain. Carrie sat up uncertainly.

"Lachie?" she called softly. She was met with silence.

She rolled out of bed and reached for his grey dressing gown. It smelled of him - the very faint scent of coffee and peppermint. She hugged it around her and tried to quell the rising feeling of panic in her stomach.

She crept downstairs, and sighed with audible relief. There he was. His back was to her - he was parked on the sofa, his long legs stretched out, making notes in the margins of a script. She approached him and took a seat next to him as he pulled up his knees to make room. He looked at her, and the panic came back again.

"What is it?" Carrie asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"You'd better give him a call." Lachie's voice was flat. She looked questioningly at him. His poor face - it was no better this morning. The cuts on his cheek were now surrounded by an angry parade of bruises. The swelling on his eye had gone down and he could now open it fully, but the contusions had darkened to a heavy purply-grey. His lip was badly swollen where Tom's fist had split it. She knew that this was her fault. She had started it. She touched his cheek gently and he flinched away from her.  


"I don't want to talk to him," she denied.  
"You called his name in your sleep all night. Trust me, I didn't sleep much."  
"Lachie..." She reached for his hand but he drew it away.  
"Look, it's not -"  
"Carrie - please don't." Lachie's voice was weary. "Don't try and explain away your feelings for him. We had one night, and we shouldn't even have had that. You don't have to make excuses for being in love with your boyfriend."  
Carrie gripped his arm and turned him to face her.  
"I didn't lie to you about how I feel. What you mean to me. You think I did this for nothing?"  
Lachie looked back at her with doubt.  
"God..." she pressed her fists to her eyes, then looked up in despair. "I don't know how I feel. Okay? Two days ago my life made sense, now I've no idea. I do care about you, and I want you... I don't know more than that because it's only just happened. And I don't know what to do about Tom; I feel horrible. I didn't imagine any of this would happen."  
"I think you know how I feel about you though," he replied. "How I've always felt about you. Don't you?"  
There was such hurt in his eyes. Hurt and resignation. Carrie couldn't bear it.  
He pressed his lips together, then discarded the script in his hand.  
"Do you actually think we can do this? I mean... could we live with ourselves?"  
Carrie swallowed, and he waited silently for an answer.  
"I don't know."  
"Tell me honestly what you feel for him right now. Everything. I know you're confused. It doesn't have to make sense. Just tell me what's going on in there."  
She looked up, and there was something hunted in her eyes.  
"Guilt. Anger. I hate him for what he did to you last night - " she gripped his hand - "...and I can't forgive the kiss. I... I don't know. I still care about him. I'm worried about him. I didn't mean to hurt him like this."  
"Anything else?"  
She looked at him, searching for the words.  
"Unbelievable loss." Lachie looked at her, an expression she couldn't interpret. "I miss him. I'm sorry - I know that's not what you want to hear."  
He nodded, chewing his lip.  
"You're not really answering the question, though." He looked at Carrie meaningfully.  
"Do I still love him, you mean?"  
He held her stare. She couldn't speak, and simply nodded, swallowing hard.

Lachie got up and went to the kitchen. Carrie could see what he was really doing, pottering around in silence. She had damaged his heart and his pride, and now he needed to retreat from her. She knew the right thing was to let him, but she wasn't ready. She followed him and stood behind him, running her hands softly down his arms.  
"Lachie. Look at me," she whispered. She watched his shoulders slowly rise and fall as he considered his options, and he turned to face her.  
"What do you want?" Carrie asked softly.  
"You," he replied. "Just that."  
"And Tom?"  
He didn't respond.  
"I want you too," she said. She put her hand in his. "I want you, and I think you could make me happy. If it was just you and me, if we'd only ever known each other, it'd be an easy choice."  
"But he got there first," he said slowly.  
"Even setting aside the guilt, I have to deal with my feelings for him. I thought I could just put that behind me, but..." She shook her head. "And anyway... I can't set aside the guilt."  
Lachie nodded. "We should never have done this. We can't do it now. I have to repair things with him. I have to try. I can't just let it end like this."  
He laughed ruefully. "You know the great irony? He doesn't deserve you. But now that we've done this, neither do I."  
She swallowed painfully. Suddenly it seemed the saddest thing in the world to let go of his hand. Her fingers interlaced his, and instinctively they stepped closer together. He cupped her face in his hands, leaned down and kissed her. She wound her arms around his neck and they buried their faces in each other's shoulders. She pressed him closer to her, and he raised his head. Looking over her shoulder, he stared dully across the room.

"Maybe there's still a chance for you and him," observed Lachie. They were curled up at opposite ends of Lachie's sofa.  
Carrie smiled weakly. "You're joking, right?"  
"You're not even going to try? You've got to. Don't just throw it all away."  
"What on earth can I say that will make this right?"  
"You can't. You just have to find a way to move past it. Forgive him, and make him forgive you."  
Lachie reached to the arm of the sofa for Carrie's phone.  
"Call him."  
She took the phone with a reluctant hand, and regarded it with mistrust.  
"Lachie... Are we going to be able to be friends? I'd hate it if I lost you altogether."  
He bowed his head, exhaled and looked up at her, wincing through those slanted brows - that same expression she'd seen Tom make a thousand times. Something in her ached.  
"I think...perhaps not yet. Can you give me a while? For all our sakes."  
She bit her lip, and nodded.  
Bracing herself, she dialled Tom's number.


	16. Chapter 16

_I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him. I know he's upset but he's hardly blameless in this. He did a hell of a number on poor Lachie. I had no idea he was capable of that. I feel like I don't even know him. And yet... I miss him. I miss the person he is, was, before all this shit poisoned us. I have to believe that person is still in there._

~~~~~

"How can you think I have anything to say to you?"  
  
Tom's voice was cold and hard - not the soft, velvet tone Carrie was used to.  
  
It had taken her five attempts to get him to pick up. She didn't leave a message - she wanted him to hear what she had to say, even though now that he had answered, her mind was blank and terrified and she had no idea how to begin.  
  
"I'm sorry, Tom."  
Blank silence at the end of the phone. She tried again.  
"I don't even know what to say. How did we end up here?"  
"Do you need a recap?" Icy, hostile. He always did this when he was hurt - put up a wall of spikes so nobody could get near him.  
"Jesus, Tom - we both behaved badly. Neither of us is blameless here." She heard him exhale; derisive, dismissive.  
"I fucked up four months ago. That's what it was. A fuckup, a stupid moment that I didn't even start - _she_ kissed _me_. And then all that horrific stuff happened, it put everything in perspective, and it was just... a dumb moment that didn't need dredging up afterwards. But what you did was actually cruel. Of all the people you could have chosen... him?"  
She couldn't answer. She couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound obscenely trite or glib. The silence on the line sucked the air from the room. Carrie felt herself suffocating.  
  
"So why did you pick up at all?"  
"Because you wouldn't stop calling."  
"You could have turned your phone off."  
"Sadly not. I'm waiting for my driver to call me. I'm going to New York."  
Her breath caught in her throat.  
"...What's in New York?"  
"Really, Carrie?" He made no attempt to hide the scorn in his voice. "Work. It's just work."  
"When's your flight?" She hated sounding so timid, so needy.  
"11am."  
"Please don't go. Please. At least let's talk before you do."  
"I really don't see the point."  
So this was what it was like to be shut out by him. Carrie kept her voice low and steady, and tried to ignore the cold, creeping fear that rippled through her.  
"I know I've no right to expect anything. But just... please wait. Please, Tom. Don't go yet."  
The line clicked dead.

~~~~~

_Please, please God let him still be there. I can't run any more, I've got a stitch and every muscle in my legs is seething. When he hung up on me, my mind went blank. It stopped me in my tracks. I looked around for Lachie, and he wasn't there. He must have slipped out while I was on the phone. His apartment suddenly felt very, very big and silent. And I wished I was home._  
  
_You can never go home again. That's how the line goes, isn't it?_  
  
_And then I was scrambling, frantic. Pulling on the damp clothes that had been balled up in the corner for the last 24 hours, trying to find my keys, my shoes, my bag. My phone - even though I just had it. All over the place. And then I was gone, hurtling down the street, as fast as I could, my lungs burning. I went flying over a tree root in the pavement, landed facedown and scraped my knees and hands badly, hauled myself up, kept going. Couldn't feel anything except the throbbing fire in my chest and the desperate fear that I'd be too late, and he'd be gone._  
  
_But now I can't run any more. I can barely walk, I'm exhausted. A minute to rest and I'll get moving again._  
  
_I can't say I wasn't angry at him. He was so cold on the phone, so unnecessarily heartless. So fucking pompous, as though he was innocent in all of this. And that shit about him not starting it... Christ. But it doesn't matter. None of it does now. We had something incredible and we can't just pour it down the drain over this stuff. We're stronger than that. We're better than that. We have to be._  
  
_Please let him still be there. Please._


	17. Chapter 17

Panting, Carrie hammered on the door of the house that had been her home. She leaned over, bracing an arm against the door frame and gulping deep breaths of the cool morning air. Had he gone already or was he glowering behind the door, nursing his anger? What could she even have said to him that would change anything? Defeat washed over Carrie, a nauseous, alkaline feeling that sapped any energy she had left.  
  
Abruptly the door opened. Startled, she looked up.  
"There's no point in you being here." Tom's voice was emotionless.  
"Can we..." She took another deep, ragged breath. "Can we at least talk about it? Please, Tom. Please."  
He shook his head, but turned and retreated inside, leaving the door open behind him. Carrie followed, her head warring between hope and trepidation. She wondered what state the place was in. After the state of him last night, she pictured an aftermath of bottles and general disarray. She followed him silently into the living room and looked around. Perfect order. The chairs at the table were neatly tucked in, the cushions plumped on the sofa, and there wasn't a bottle or glass in sight. The only reference to the night before was an ashtray, stuffed with bent, dead cigarette butts. She didn't think she'd seen him smoke on more than a few occasions in all the time she had known him. Behind her, a suitcase and Tom's rucksack stood expectantly in the corner by the door.  
  
"I don't have long."  
She nodded, and took a step towards him.  
"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, Tom." She stared at him, willing his eyes to respond in some way, but they looked back at her unresponsively. She felt helpless, and searched for something to say that might penetrate the hard layer he had clothed himself in.  
"Why him?" Tom's voice was low and quiet, and caught her by surprise. "You could have picked up some guy at a bar. Anyone. Why him?"  
She shook her head, trying to make sense of it, to produce something that would constitute an answer.  
"I don't know. I didn't plan it, not at all. He found me, and I felt safe with him. I was in a state - God, you saw the state I was in, after what... what happened."  
He turned his face away - exasperation or contempt, she couldn't tell. "'What happened'... It was one idiotic kiss, and it was four months ago, Carrie. _Jesus_." His eyes met hers but the look he sent her was cold and belligerent. She felt her skin prickle with bleached anger.  
"To _you_. To you, maybe. It happened to me two - days - ago. And the papers. It's brand fucking new to them, trust me. It's terrific that you can just brush it under the carpet - I'm really happy for you." She saw his face darken with resentment. "Not so easy for me. You utterly humiliated me. Did that ever occur to you? No. It's all about you, your feelings, your ego. Why him?! Why _her_?" Her eyes blazed.  
"So it really was about revenge," he said bitterly, shaking his head - she could see the cogs turning, the blame settling, an ugly tableau materialising in the front of his mind.  
" _No_  -" he was putting words into her mouth now, why couldn't he listen instead of making assumptions -  
"You wanted revenge, and you got it. Phenomenal job. Really sterling work." He held his hands out and clapped with slowly punctuated sarcasm. "Was he any good? Did you take notes? You can tell everyone you've had both twins now."  
"Jesus - " She turned away, feeling sick. The contempt weighing down his words was more than Carrie could bear.  
"How did I measure up? Literally or otherwise..." His mouth curled in scorn. "Let me guess. He's so much more attentive, right? You felt like he was only interested in you, you felt _safe_  with him?" His words lashed around her and she felt her breath desert her.  
"Why do you have to be such a cunt about it, such a fucking bully, what do you...." The words died on her lips and she trailed off, mortified. He stared at her. Was that shock...or satisfaction on his face?  
"For God's sake, Carrie, don't be a wallflower. Spit it out, tell me what you really think of me."  
The walls echoed appallingly with the sound of her stinging slap. Her hand met his cheek with stunning accuracy and in slow motion her mind saw him gasp as his head jerked to the side. Her hand hung in mid air briefly, then dropped to her side. A dreadful silence rang in her ears as he turned his reddened, burning face back slowly to meet her gaze. His eyes were black and bottomless with resentment and humiliation.

~~~~~

_My rage dissolved with the slap. I think I actually shocked myself more than him. I remembered why I'd come, and felt nothing but misery. He looked at me like he really loathed me. I can't take that look, not from him. Not from those eyes. The worst thing was, all I could think in that moment was how beautiful he was, this man that had been mine and now looked at me with unrestrained disgust. Time stilled and every detail of him gleamed at me. My eyes traced the lines of his cheekbones; in this light, they looked leaner and finer than ever. The familiar furrow between his brows was deeper than usual, darkening the eyes that held me at bay, and a day of shadow darkened the handsome line of his jaw. The long dark line of his frame, clad sparely in black jeans and a navy crewneck jumper; the sleeves rolled up above tanned forearms. He looked so very much himself - how could it be that this person, who was supposed to love and be loved by me, could be so out of my reach? I wanted him, and could not get near him._  
  
_"I'm sorry," I whispered, but it was too late. The shutters came down, and if he had left me any hope when he let me through the door, now he ground it beneath his heel. It replays over and over in my head - is this going to be my last memory of him? Is this all I have left?_  
 _"Pack your things and leave," he said in a dead monotone. His phone trilled and he glanced at it, his mouth tightening._  
 _"Tom - God, look, we both screwed up, we let it go way too far, we need to just calm down and -"_  
 _"I want you gone. We're done here."_  
 _I couldn't say anything more. I could only look at him, stricken. And then he came up to me, his face an inch from mine, and looked down into my eyes. I couldn't help myself; swallowing, looking up at him, I put my hand on his waist. When he spoke, his voice was low, and he said each word with dangerous precision._  
 _"Get your stuff, and go." His hand locked around my wrist and he forced my hand away slowly from his side._  
 _"I'll be away for a week. I want you gone when I get back."_  
  
_I don't remember sinking to the floor, but I suppose I must have. I do remember sitting there numbly, feeling nothing but my throbbing palm and stinging knees, watching as he hiked his rucksack onto his back, reached for his suitcase and left me behind. He didn't look back, and I heard the front door click quietly and the muffled rumble of an engine drawing away. He was gone, and I had pushed Lachie away and lost Tom forever._


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long to update. Life got in the way in a big way...

_I should have known better. This is why things are better when I focus my energy on work. I need to focus on my future, not my past. This career, it's too demanding, it asks too much of me for there to be room for love or other distractions. You can't have everything. Some people need love and relationships, they need that connection in their lives. I need this, the career and the path I've worked for all my life. The schools I've studied at, the mentors I've been lucky to have, everyone who's ever put their faith in me - I wasn't granted this education and these opportunities to piss it all up the wall. It's time to start taking things seriously again._

_New York is another opportunity. I'm going to make the most of it. I'll put my best foot forward in these meetings. Can't let anything like the Bond fuckup happen again. They're going to know I'm the person they want - I won't leave 'til I've made sure of that. This is serious. It's Scorsese - it could change everything. If they ask about Taylor, if they ask about Carrie, I'll make it clear my only focus is the work, and the opportunity they are going to give me. Whatever they need me to do. Wherever they want me to be, whoever they want me to be... I'll do whatever it takes. Everything that's happened up to now has only happened to make me a stronger person, a better actor. I won't let it drag me down. I'm going to succeed, like I always determined I would. Life is all too short, and you only get one shot._

~~~~~

_The time goes by in a surreal, stateless fog. Too fast, too slow. I want him to come back. I miss him. I don't want him to come back, because I know that will be the end of everything. I can't pack; I can't even approach the task. I tried and sat uselessly in front of the wardrobe, with piles of clothes around me. After an hour I gave up and stuffed everything back into the closet. The door won't shut properly now; the clothes all seem to want to escape. I guess they're keener to leave than I am. How can I remove myself from his life? I might as well sever a limb. I sleep in his bed - our bed. The sheets smell of his aftershave, and the pillows smell of his hair. It's perfect, dreamy bliss, until reality engulfs it like a monster wave. And it always does; a breezeblock crashing through the window, a jet engine tumbling through the roof, a sad, inescapable mass. I can't disconnect myself. I bury my face in the pillows day and night and try to make time stand still, or even go backwards._

_The cleaner let herself in, and I hid upstairs. I couldn't face seeing her, seeing anyone. Explaining._

_I keep thinking about alternate scenarios. If I hadn't opened the paper. If I hadn't kissed Lachie. But I did. If I hadn't come back. If I'd stayed with him, left the wreckage of this relationship behind. Maybe it would have been good. It could have worked... maybe I could have left Tom behind. Tried on a different kind of happiness. I'm kidding myself that I could have transferred my feelings like that, but my head's reaching for anything, any possibility to replace this throbbing grief. Either way, I torched it to come back to an inferno. And now I've lost them both._

_I don't want to know what's in New York. I know who's there. He wouldn't go to her, though, would he? He doesn't really want her after all this time. Not after all the fallout. Unless he'd do it just to hurt me. To wound me the way I now see I've wounded him. How could we sink our claws into each other like this? We were so precious to each other._

_I don't know whether to contact Lachie or not. If it's even fair to contemplate it. God, I could do with a friend right now. He's the only one who'd get it, but of course in the end I hurt him too badly. I can't go to any of our mutual friends - if Tom hasn't already told them what happened I doubt he'll thank me for blowing it open. I could talk to my friends but somehow I doubt I'll find much sympathy when I tell them how everything fell apart. The more I look back on it, the more I tear at myself. His brother. What was I thinking, what the HELL was I thinking? How could I ever have thought things would be okay afterwards?_

_What will he do if he gets back and I'm still here? A week ago I couldn't have imagined being this scared of his reaction to anything. Now I dread the thought of anything he might say. He's so warm with everyone usually that being in the path of his anger almost paralyses you with shock._


	19. Chapter 19

A weary Tom arrived at New York's Soho House to meet his agent. It had been a gruelling afternoon of meetings, and he felt disheartened and wrongfooted. He had known he would be up against heavyweight competition, though he could only guess at whom. He had no illusions; he hadn't expected Scorsese's people to roll out the red carpet for him. In American terms he was a still up-and-coming British import best known to the Comic-Con crowd, not in the same league as the cinematic titans that Scorsese had directed, and he ruefully suspected that at least one of those A-listers was gunning for the same role as him. Nevertheless, the meetings had been painful. Over several hours he had met with a collection of casting people and producers, and the reception from most of them had been chilly and detached. He could not gauge whether this was a bad sign, or quite the opposite - was the legendary director asking for him personally despite the disinterest of his colleagues, or would he be advised by them? He hoped Christian could shed some light on it.

His agent was waiting in the Club Bar and raised a hand to greet him as Tom crossed the room toward him. Christian had secured two seats in the corner, a pair of red velvet armchairs set discreetly by a panel of internal windows, and he stood up to shake his client's hand before Tom sat down opposite him.  
"Productive?" he asked, glancing toward a nearby waiter.  
"Didn't feel like it," Tom replied grimly. The waiter approached, and Tom ordered a whisky with ice.  
"What was the vibe? I assume Scorsese himself wasn't there."  
"No - they said they'd be in touch if he wants to meet." Tom sipped his single malt pensively, and rested his chin on his hand. "To tell you the truth, they were somewhat hostile. I certainly didn't get the impression they liked me much."  
"I wouldn't read too much into that at this stage," commented Christian. "There's every chance they're just low-balling you. They know that you know you're not the only name on the table. They could just be manoeuvring you to get what they want for less. You know how it works."  
"Perhaps." Tom looked thoughtful.  
"What did they ask you?"  
Tom leaned his forehead on his hand, staring down into his drink before raising his eyes to meet Christian's concerned look.  
"They had some concerns about my... personal life - and my personality. They were bloody rude, actually."  
"What was the issue exactly?" Christian leaned forward, frowning, though he could hazard a guess. Tom looked uncomfortable and defensive. Until the last year or so, he had enjoyed a degree of privacy, and he had kept his personal relationships far away from his work. Losing that had been a sobering experience, and Christian knew Tom deeply resented the way it had already encroached on his career; being ruled out of the Bond race so publicly had been a stinging humiliation.  
"They saw all the stuff in the papers recently," Tom sighed. "They're worried it's going to keep following me around, and they don't want it attached to the film. They don't want anything trivialising it, or reflecting badly on Martin." He paused. "'Albatross' was the word they used," he added with distaste. Christian looked at him shrewdly. He could see there was more. Tom twitched under the gimlet stare of his agent.  
"There was... I had a bit of a falling out with my brother right before we flew out."  
"Mm. I wondered when you were going to mention that."  
"Well, I didn't know it had made it into the papers. Bloody photographers," returned Tom defensively.  
"But they did, I take it. Did they catch you off guard?"  
Tom shifted in his seat. He had always prided himself on his professionalism and his manners; it was deeply painful to have either questioned. "They were concerned about how I would... get on with everyone. Whether I'm difficult to work with, or bring aggression or "a negative energy" to the set. They said the world doesn't need two Russell Crowes." Tom's voice was bitter, and he looked mortified. Rightly so, thought Christian. It was bullshit tabloid fare, completely beneath someone of Tom's age or standing, and it grossly undermined the reputation he had worked hard to build.  
"Are you going to tell me what the whole sorry incident was about?"  
"No," said Tom shortly. The two men regarded each other, and neither could read the other's expression.  
"So... did they say it's a no-go, or..."  
"They'll be in touch. They said." Tom shrugged, and drained his glass.  
"Well, look. Don't lose heart yet. They may just be trying to knock you down a bit."  
"Yep."  
"Don't give up on it. We're here for a few days, we can push for another meeting, reshape their impressions of you."  
"Believe me, I've no intention of giving up." He spoke mildly, but there was a steely edge to his voice.  
"Another?" Christian tipped his glass in the air.  
"No. Thanks. I need a better night's sleep than I got last night, and I doubt that'll help."  
"What else is on your mind? Just the stuff with Lachie, or..."  
Tom shook his head. "Don't worry about it."  
"Not the stuff in the papers?"  
Tom snorted. "I'm not quite as fragile as all that. I'm just annoyed about it affecting my work. You know I don't let the press get to me."  
Christian nodded. "If you don't mind me saying, though, mate, you really don't seem yourself. To be honest, this whole thing is out of character. Everything else alright? Are things okay with Carrie?" His sharp eyes noticed Tom stiffen as he swallowed and briefly looked away.  
"Everything's fine. Look, I'm going to go for a run and then turn in. Get an early night. Thanks for the drink." Tom rose, and buttoned his suit jacket.  
"You know, you can talk to me if you need," pressed Christian. "We've known each other a long time now, and you know I'm obviously not going to repeat anything."  
"I know." Tom gave him a brief smile and reached out to clasp his hand. "See you tomorrow - let me know what time you want me." He turned, and Christian sipped the last of his whisky, watching him leave. He signalled to the waiter, and ordered another.


	20. Chapter 20

The New York air was brisk for the time of year, and whipped at Tom's hair as he ran. It had already snatched his hood down, and as he wove his way through Central Park at sunset, onlookers peered at him, all making the same familiar face - recognition, uncertainty - that was him, right? What had they seen him in? His route led him into the path of three arm-linked girls in preppy, customised school uniforms, giggling as they spotted him. He smiled briefly and kept his eyes ahead of him, and as he passed them, a snatched word of their conversation wafted back to him on the wind - "...Fassbender...?!" He felt a sudden, desperate urge to howl with laughter.   
  
He had to turn this around. He had to stop fucking up. He could not let this chance slip through his fingers - not this as well as everything else. He prayed that Christian could score another meeting - the agent, savvy to a fault, had perfected a ruthless talent for getting into any room he pleased. Tom doubted he'd get a meeting with Scorsese off the back of the day's endeavours but there had to be a chance to salvage it. He rehearsed what he would say. He would be charm and humility itself. He would tell them anything they wanted to know - everything he had refused to tell Christian. He didn't know quite why he had kept it from him - perhaps he simply couldn't face any more judgment or, even worse, that pitying look. The one that acknowledged that someone else had bested him. Mainly he just didn't want to bloody well talk about it.   
  
But if Scorsese's people wanted to talk about it, so be it. Whatever it took. He would refer them to everyone he'd ever worked with, and invite them to seek whatever references they chose. Mustn't come across as desperate, though. Just ready to correct a wrong impression. At their disposal, happy to accommodate. Reasonable. Affable. Enter stage left; he would re-inhabit the gentlemanly, professional self that the world imagined he had always been. He would turn this situation around if it killed him. He had five days before he had to go home. A black cloud shadowed his mind at that word, at the thought of... He shook it from his mind, and pounded on down the slope towards the park exit.   
  
It was starting to drizzle as Tom approached his hotel's neighbourhood. He had pulled his hood up again, and it felt as though anonymity was his once more. The sun had gone down, and the lamplight cast harsh orange pathways across the asphalt. He rounded a corner, and a familiar building loomed at the end of the block. A tall, handsome apartment building with a portly, uniformed concierge outside. He wondered if the chap would remember him. Probably wouldn't think anything of him at all in this guise, just another jogger doing the rounds. Unless he stopped, Tom thought. The building was just a few doors ahead of him now. He looked up at the penthouse. The lights were on, and he chewed his lip as he reached the front of the building.

~~~~~

_He's going to be so annoyed. I don't know when exactly he's due back but I know I'm not supposed to be here._   
  
_I'm not being awkward for the sake of it. I have tried to pack. I managed to fill a couple of bags. But it's just too painful, and it feels so very, very wrong. We're both at fault, and if I can persuade him to just stop and think, perhaps I can convince him to help me mend it._   
  
_He must have calmed down while he's been in the States. He couldn't have stayed that angry all week; he's not someone who holds grudges like that. I just pray that me being here won't set him off all over again. I've never known such cold rage in him; it's a side to him I didn't even know existed. It doesn't put me off, though. I just want him back. I'll do whatever I have to._

~~~~~

The outdoor floodlight flickered on and cast a hot white glare over Tom's car. It was nearly midnight, and the house was dark. He thanked his driver, hauled his rucksack onto his back and pulled his suitcase up to the front step. His key click-clunked in the lock, and the silence of the house yawned at him through the darkness.   
  
Upstairs, things were less calm. The sound of the car on the gravel had woken Carrie, and she scrambled out of bed in a panic, fumbling around in the darkness for something to put on. Her hands landed on Tom's old gym t-shirt, crumpled on the corner of the bed, which she had buried her face in the night before as she slept. She pulled it on hurriedly and dashed out along the corridor towards the centre of the house.   
  
An upstairs light flicked on, and Tom raised his eyes to the landing above the stairs. Carrie stood there, her face a confused mask of trepidation, hope and God knew what else. His eyes took in her t-shirt - his t-shirt, huge on her... and her bare legs. He had always wondered that such a tiny girl had such long legs for her frame. He fixed his eyes on her face, and she bit her lip, taking a step towards the stairs.


	21. Chapter 21

"You're not supposed to be here."  
"I know. Please don't start shouting. I can't take it, I can't." She shook her head.  
"I'm not going to shout." His voice was low and measured. "But -" He shrugged. "What are you still doing here?"  
"I couldn't leave. I tried. I tried to pack -" She gestured to a couple of bags in the hallway with a nervous smile. "But I just couldn't do it. I want to fix us, I don't want to leave it like this." She felt the tears start to rise, hitching a ride on the lump in her throat, and her voice deepened and hollowed as she forced them back inside, fighting to regulate her voice and stay calm. Hold your shit together, Carrie, she thought. Don't make him despise you.  
"Carrie..." He pressed his lips together, and looked at her seriously, but she continued, her words falling over each other.  
"I know you're angry, and hurt - I get it, I don't blame you. I know you hate me, and what I did, and I'd do anything to undo it, I just want -"  
"I don't hate you." He interrupted softly and put a hand up when she opened her mouth to speak. "I don't hate you, and I'm not... I don't even think I'm angry anymore."  
It was true. The glowing fury that had consumed him last time he saw her felt like a distant memory. She was the same, tiny, soot-haired imp that he had always known. His words warmed Carrie and she felt her heart swell.   
  
"Were you asleep?"  
She nodded.  
"In my bed?"  
She nodded again, smaller this time. "Please don't be angry."  
"I told you, I'm not angry."   
"I just missed you. I really, really missed you. I wanted to breathe you in and pretend you were still here."   
"Even after the dreadful things we said to each other?"  
She nodded, and took a cautious step towards him.  
"Listen." He looked at her seriously, but before he could continue, she interrupted again.  
"How was New York?"  
He shrugged, searching for the words. "It was okay. Up and down. There's a chance Martin Scorsese might want me for his next film."   
Her eyes brightened, and she beamed at him. "Tom, that's immense. That's so good, I'm really pleased for you."  
"Don't congratulate me just yet; it's just a chance right now. We had some meetings with his people, it was a bit of a slog at first, but I had a meeting with Scorsese himself yesterday, and I guess I'm in the running, at least."  
"I'm so proud of you. You absolutely deserve it." She smiled simply at him, and for a moment he wanted to reach for her.   
"Did you -" She began the question hesitantly, and thought better of it immediately.  
"Did I what?"   
Carrie shook her head. "Never mind."  
He looked at her quizzically. "Go on..."  
She looked at him, uncomfortable, embarrassed, desperate to know, afraid to know, and he understood the question.  
"No. I didn't see her," he said softly. Guilty relief radiated from her eyes. "I didn't go to New York for that. It was just work." She nodded slowly, and smiled.  
"Carrie, listen. I told you I'm not angry anymore. But I can't pretend things are okay."   
A cloud crossed her face. "I know. We did a lot of damage to each other. But after everything we've come through, it's worth saving - you know it is. I don't expect things to magically be okay, just like that. It'll take time."  
"No - Carrie, look - it won't. It won't take time. Time won't help." She reached for him, and he caught her hand and gently returned it to her side. "I can't go back, Carrie. I can't. What happened, happened, and I can't pretend it didn't. We just did too much harm. We both did - I know that."  
Tears gleamed in her eyes, and he felt something in him crack.  
"I'm sorry for the things I said to you," she whispered.   
"I am too. I never meant to hurt you," he replied. "But we have to go forward... and I can't do that with you. I'm sorry. I just can't."  
Carrie clenched her eyes shut, trying to keep herself calm. How was it that this felt so much more appalling than the screaming argument a week ago? His voice, saying these grotesque, final things, was gentle, and wounded her deeper than any barb he could have thrown at her in the depths of his anger. In a daze she sank onto the stairs, sitting on the bottom step. Her breath came raggedly.   
  
The air crackled with an awkward silence.   
"The packing didn't go so well, then?" Tom quipped weakly, trying to diffuse the thick atmosphere. Carrie didn't raise her head. She felt sick.  
"Look... I know it's late; you don't have to go tonight. I'm not so cruel as all that." She didn't answer.  
"Do you need a couple more days?" He crouched before her. "It's fine if you do. If it makes it easier."  
"I don't want to go," she whispered.  
"I know. But we can't go back." He squeezed her hands, and made to help her up. "Come on."  
"I'll take the sofa," she said defeatedly.  
"Don't be silly - go back to bed. It's freezing down here. Go and get warm."  
"What about you?"  
"I'll just get a hotel for a couple of days."   
"Tom, for God's sake - you don't have to do that. Stay here. Please. You can take the bed, or we can share, or you could take the sofa, or -"  
"Carrie - no. C'mon. I think it's best that I don't." He tipped his head, and looked at her with something between reassurance and regret. "I'll be back on Tuesday. Okay?"  
She choked down a sob, and he felt something contract in his chest.  
"Come here." He reached for her hand, and folded her into his arms. She seemed smaller than ever, and was completely still, buried against his chest, his long arms locked around her.  
"I love you." Her voice was a faint whisper, muffled against his shirt. Tom closed his eyes, tucked his face down by the side of hers and nodded, stroking her hair.

~~~~~

_He's gone. That's that._   
  
_I don't know what to say. There's nothing. I have no words at all._   
  
_I thought I could make him stay._


	22. Chapter 22

_I got back an hour ago. She left the hall light on for me. I thought maybe she was still here, but the house was empty. I went upstairs, and the closets were empty of her clothes. The bookshelves were lighter, and all her records were gone. The little glass that had held her toothbrush was empty, sparkling clean - she had rinsed away every trace. And the scientific-looking Australian and Korean bottles of toiletries were all gone from the bathroom.  Even the little pile of receipts for clothes she'd forgotten to return, remembered too late - swept away._  
  
_I know it was what I wanted, and the right thing to do. I wish I could get rid of the feeling that I've murdered something._  
  
_I didn't have the heart to cook, so I just microwaved some noodles. I was checking my emails while they cooked, and there was an email from New York. Scorsese wants me. They start filming in a month and a half. This is it. The past is done with, and tomorrow begins right now. I'm going to be worthy of this. I'm going to put everything into it._  
  
_When I opened the cutlery drawer, I found an envelope with her handwriting on it. Just "Tom". It wasn't sealed, just folded closed._  
  
_There was no point in reading it. It wouldn't have changed anything. I lit the corner of it, put it in the sink and watched it smoulder up into a little black flower, and smoke away to nothing._  


_~~~~~_

_It's been a month. Tom's still not speaking to me. I know I crossed a line this time._

_I left him alone for a week or so after everything. I knew hounding him wouldn't help. Mum phoned a couple of times; she had seen the papers, and was more upset than I've heard her in years. She cried, and I felt absolutely ashamed of myself. All I could tell her was that I was sorry, and I was fine, absolutely fine, and that it was my fault. I didn't tell her what I did - what we did. I figured I'd let Tom tell her that one first, and tell it however he thought was fair. I owed him that at least._

_I showed up at his house twice, but he didn't answer the door. I don't know. Maybe he wasn't home. I left him a voicemail. I don't know if it meant anything to him, or if he even listened to it. The press were at my door for a while, wanting to know what the fight was about, were we speaking or feuding, etc. My response, depending on how polite each reporter was, was pitched somewhere between "fuck off" and "kindly fuck off"._

_I haven't heard from her. After she left me that night, she went to him, and I assumed that was that. I thought they had figured it out, patched it up. I couldn't begrudge them that. I hoped they were happy again. I read that he was in New York, talking to Scorsese. It seemed like things were back on track._

_And then I read that they had broken up. I suppose the selfish part of me, the part that always causes all the trouble, ought to have been pleased, hopeful of another shot for myself. But all I could feel was sadness and enormous regret. Why couldn't they fix it? It would have been possible, surely, if they'd both wanted it enough._

_I miss her. I miss her a great deal. Even though it caused a world of pain, I'm glad we had what we had. It was tiny but it was beautiful, and it was real. It aches, and I wish she was here. I haven't tried to contact her. I suppose it would feel grossly inappropriate. If I ever want my brother back, I have to accept that she's not for me. But good grief, I miss her. She left a necklace here, and I put it at the back of a drawer. I'd rather not look at it._

_He's in the papers a lot lately. It feels strange and sad for the gossip pages to be the only way I have of knowing what's going on in my brother's life. If you can call it "knowing"._


	23. Chapter 23

Luke did not enjoy his job much these days. He felt like he spent his days clearing up crap. This was not what he had signed up for. He had many clients, but little time for them. Time management had become a distant, ancient notion from a lifetime ago.

Tom was due to start filming in Massachussetts in six weeks. Things would calm down then, and he could clear the decks, get back on track properly with Emma and the others, and feel in charge of things again.

His dream client, his golden goose, had become a nightmare. It had been good news when Tom had been announced as one of the leads in Scorsese's as-yet untitled new project. A much needed silver lining to a profoundly shitty two months. Tom had been hyper-focused on the role at first, and by day at least, he seemed to be getting his head down with the script.

The evenings were another thing. He seemed to have discovered the debauched youth he had skipped in his twenties. Every night he was photographed stumbling out of a different club. The standard of the clubs was not what it could have been, either, sniffed Luke to himself. He was off partying with Idris Elba, sighted in corners with this ingenue, or in the back of a car with that model, his hands up her skirt, and on a couple of occasions, caught in flashlit tangles with reality tv starlets. It was unseemly.

Luke's attempts to talk to him had been futile. What was the problem, Tom wanted to know? Why shouldn't he have some fun? Fun was not the problem, Luke tried to patiently explain. Reputation was the problem. What was the point of spending years cultivating an M.O. as a discreet, thoughtful, well-read, hardworking actor who took his craft seriously, if you were just going to flush it down the toilet for the sake of a few heady nights out and easy lays? It would have been easy to indulge if Tom had been a twenty-something up-and-comer, drunk on new success, but for someone with a fifteen year career under their belt, it looked desperate, petulant and suspiciously like an early midlife crisis. Scorsese's people weren't happy, and Luke spent his days holding back the tide, trying to dissuade Andre Harmsworth from writing yet more salacious lines about whose shoulders Tom had been spotted licking vodka off in the VIP room.

He was going to have to have another word, and be more forceful this time.

~~~~~

"I really don't see what the issue is."  
Tom was heartily sick of these conversations. He had found his way to the venerable age of 36 and managed his affairs quite well thus far, thank you. He was hardly a hellraising wildchild, and he did not now need a surrogate parent telling him how to manage his social life.  
"The issue is that you're jeopardising everything." Luke tried to keep his voice even. He knew that if he lost his temper Tom would just shut the conversation down.  
"Don't be so ridiculous. Frankly I should think a few extra column inches are no bad thing."  
Luke bristled. "Why don't you let me determine what column inches we need - that is, after all, what I do for a living." At the other end of the line, Tom rolled his eyes. He was fond of Luke but the chap could be prissy sometimes.  
"All I'm asking is that you have a think about how it looks. Have the night out, if you want. Go to the party. Just think about where it is, who you're seen with."  
"I didn't realise you were such an unreformed snob," remarked Tom mildly.  
"Oh, for God's sake, Tom. It matters, alright? Sorry, but it does."  
"Look. This really isn't the big deal you're making it out to be. I've tagged along with friends to a few parties. I haven't trashed any hotel bars, or been arrested for streaking or punching a photographer - tempting as it is. I'm not Justin Bieber. I wish you'd calm down about it all."  
"Scorsese's people are still on our case, Tom." The actor half groaned, half growled in infuriation. "No, no, no - you knew how they felt about this stuff. You took the gig knowing full well. They were clear from the start, and now they're questioning whether you're serious about the project. They've also started asking whether they need to worry about your... alcohol consumption."  
Tom couldn't stand it. This probing, this nannying. It was intolerable.  
"I don't have a drinking problem, Luke." His voice was a tight, dangerous line.  
"I'm not saying you do. But it's about perception. You've either got a girl or a drink in your hand in every photo. They turned down some very serious names for this role. You can't blame them for keeping their hand on the leash. Just try to -"  
"Alright!" Tom snapped. "Fine! Alright. You've made your point. You can stop."  
"We're both on the same team," Luke placated. "I know this stuff isn't fun to hear. I'm just trying to help, and to do my job."  
"I know. I know. I'll handle it. Look, I'd better go. The lines won't learn themselves."  
"Alright. Take care. See you next week."  
The line clicked dead. Tom pitched his phone across the den, and it landed, forlorn and unwanted, on the other sofa. He groaned and settled back into his seat. With one hand he picked up the script, bookmarked in two dozen places with small post-its. With the other he picked up a fizzing glass of alka seltzer.


	24. Chapter 24

Lachie stepped out of the Pleasance Theatre. He was settling in well. They were a fantastic, imaginative company and he was enjoying the chance to plan some really creative, ambitious productions. It was exactly the kind of challenge he had been hankering after.

He considered it remarkable, frankly, that they had seen fit to offer him this gig. He was painfully aware that he had not covered himself in glory at the old place. The standoff between cast and director had reached boiling point, and with no support from the board, Lachie knew his position had become untenable. He knew it was only a matter of time before he was quietly shown the door, and he clung on grimly day by day, willing anything else to show itself on the horizon - and then the blessed folks from the Pleasance had come riding in and saved him from professional ignominy, just in the nick of time. Moreover, they had come with only one condition; they would choose the first play, he could pick his own thereafter. The first play was a Beckett piece, and the cast proved to be a delight. It couldn't have worked out better.

Now he stepped into the sunshine, feeling that after a turbulent few months, the universe was finally smiling on him. Things were uncomplicated. His future looked bright. There was an occasional pang over a certain someone, but he resolutely made himself think of something else whenever the tang of regret threatened to sour things. As of a couple of weeks ago, Tom was even speaking to him again, though it was by no means the easy, intimate relationship it had been.

He strolled down Caledonian Road towards a little sandwich/coffee shop that had already become a favourite. The lad behind the bar, resplendent in a baguette-sized moustache, handed him his coffee and his toastie, and Lachie settled himself at a bar seat in the window. He had just got comfortable when his phone rang. An unknown number.

Lachie had a system for this sort of mystery intrusion, and it had never let him down. If he was having a good day, there was every chance it was opportunity knocking, and he would answer it. If he was having a shocker, it was undoubtedly a PPI recorded call or someone after something related to his family name, and he would ignore it.

He glanced out of the window at the sunshine, savoured a mouthful of the really exceptional coffee, and answered the call.

"Hi... Is that Lachie? Lachie Hiddleston?"  
"It is... Who's asking?"  
"Sorry... We have met, but it was a while ago. Luke Windsor - I'm Tom's publicist."  
"Oh, of course. How are you? Er...what can I do for you?"  
"I'm so sorry to disturb you out of the blue. I'm actually after a favour. It's a bit awkward to be honest."  
Lachie chewed his lip and considered the possibility that his system had outlived its usefulness. In silence, he waited.  
"It's about Tom."  
Lachie wondered when Captain Obvious would get to the point. He looked sadly at his cheese toastie, rapidly metamorphosing into a lukewarm cheese chewie.  
"Have you seen him recently? I mean, have you spent much time with him in the last few weeks?"  
"Well, yes, we've spoken... Look, I'm awfully sorry, Luke, but I'm at the theatre and we're just about to do a run-through, so I have to get on, I'm afraid. What can I help with?"  
The lie slipped off his tongue without guilt. He was not keen on trading on the whole "Hiddlesdeux" schtick (a vile, unfunny turn of phrase that some insufferable wag had seen fit to print in the Londoner's Diary when the Pleasance held a party to celebrate him taking the helm). If Luke wanted him to do some mortifying twins thing that would make him and Tom both look like wallies, he was unfortunately going to be busy washing his hair for the next eight years.  
"Well, I wondered if you might have a word with him. You might have more luck than me. He's about to throw away the biggest role of his career and I can't get through to him."  
The cheese toastie had almost made it to his mouth but at that, Lachie set it down on the plate. "What's going on, exactly?"  
"Well, I'm sure you're aware he's become quite the boy about town of late. Girls, falling out of clubs at 3am. Enjoying his drinks a bit too much. I don't know - maybe it's the company he's keeping. Idris can wear it, it adds to his whole charismatic bad boy thing, but Tom... Frankly, he's starting to give Orlando Bloom a run for his money, and it's embarrassing. The whole Scorsese team are fucked off about it, and they've started hinting that the big man himself is having second thoughts. He's about to find himself out of a job. So... I thought maybe you could try and get through to him?"  
"Shit. Erm... Look, Luke, it's not that I don't want to help; I obviously do. I didn't realise it was actually impacting his work."  
"Quite seriously, in fact." Luke sounded awfully unhappy. Lachie remembered him as being a rather unflappable fellow.  
"The thing is; well, you probably know he and I fell out a while back."  
The disgraceful photo of Tom and his twin scrapping under the floodlights in Tom's driveway burned through Luke's mind, and he shuddered.  
"I was aware, yes."  
"Well, look - we're only just starting to get back on track. As in, a couple of weeks ago. I really wouldn't mind trying if I thought it'd do any good, but truthfully I think it'd be counterproductive. He doesn't trust me again yet and I think he'd just shut down if I started telling him to clean up his act."  
"Not even if you were subtle about it?"  
"Trust me; not unless you want to make life really difficult for yourself."  
"Is there anyone else who might be able to get through to him? What about Carrie? Are they speaking again yet?"  
"Good lord - NO. Definitely not Carrie. Does he not talk to you at all?" Lachie didn't mean to be rude, but he couldn't hide his surprise. "You literally couldn't pick a worse person to try and get through to him. No - they're very much not speaking. I doubt they ever will again. I'm sorry - if I think of anything I'll let you know but nothing comes to mind right now."  
"Alright. Thanks anyway. Sorry to bother you. I'll let you get back to your rehearsal."  
The line clicked off, and Lachie stared at the forlorn-looking pile of bread and reformed cheese. He needed to get things back on track with his brother. This arm's length stuff didn't work at all.


	25. Chapter 25

It was the last straw. Really, it was intolerable. There was such a thing as sabotage, and this was it.  
  
Luke had retreated after his fruitless call with Lachie. If his client couldn't take the truth from him, and if no-one could knock any sense into him, then he had only two options; make do, or make off. Tom was one of his biggest clients, and recent obnoxious Jekyll/Hydery aside, he was fond of him and considered him a friend, though he was admittedly hurt that Tom had not confided in him about how badly things seemed to have crashed and burned with his ex-girlfriend. Throwing in the towel was not an option. Besides, who ever said PR was easy?   
  
But there was a line, and the bloody fool had crossed it.   
  
It had been a particularly shocking week. The Marvel train had rolled into San Diego, and Tom was on Comic Con duty for Ragnarok. He had always gotten gamely into the spirit of things in the past, entertaining and indulging noisy but devoted crowds of fans who delighted in his in-costume appearances and his playful attitude to his own character. It had gone smoothly enough at first. A successful trailer unveiling, a panel and an audience Q&A in which he managed to be his usual charming and affable self. Tom was a consummate pro at this stuff, something Luke had always appreciated. And then a party, and a late night, and some boozy showing off in front of cameras. Co-star Cate Blanchett had reportedly been deeply unimpressed with the spectacle. Tessa had gone along with it, and so Luke sighed and chalked it up to familial, indiscreet silliness with costars that were, by now, close friends.   
  
But then, the next day. Luke felt sick just thinking about it. Tom had shown up hungover, and had behaved abominably. He had slouched wordlessly past the railing of autograph-hungry fans outside, conducted the ticketed signing session with dismissive curtness, and sighed, huffed and raised his eyebrows wearily at the merry-go-round of banal questions from interviewers during the press junket. It was far from what people had come to expect from him. He had reduced one nervous young blogger to a stuttering wreck after meeting her slightly strained questions with mounting sarcasm, finally asking her drily, "Are you sure this is the career for you?" An Empire journalist with whom Luke had built an excellent relationship had actually complained directly to him about Tom's atrocious hostility, after playing mother hen to the poor blogger who had needed gluing back together after her encounter with him.   
  
And then - and then! - the little fucker had gone AWOL. Luke was still apoplectic over it all. Press reception; photocall; closing party; he was a no-show at all of them. Why? Because the bastard had skipped town. No-one had known at the time, of course. Not until the pictures on TMZ the next day - Tom in New York. At a new night spot uptown. Arm in arm with La Swift - and later, seemingly performing mouth-to-mouth. Apparently she had flown him in herself. It must have been a hell of a booty call, Luke thought murderously. Of course, the press were delighted. Luke consoled himself with dark and detailed imaginings of Tom's demise.   
  
And now neither Tom nor the Scorsese team would answer his calls.   
  
He could stand it no more.

_~~~~~_

"Look, I'm sorry, but I really don't know what you think I can actually do here." Lachie's calm was evaporating. "I told you how things are between us. It's delicate, and I'm not about to fuck it up when I know it won't work anyway."  
"Could you just try? Please? I can't even get him to pick up the phone." Luke was not above pleading at this point.  
"It'll do - more - harm - than good."   
"There's got to be something we can do! He's setting fire to his career, and mine while he's at it. Why is he doing this? What the hell is he thinking?"  
"Evidently he's not." Lachie chewed at a jagged corner of his thumbnail. Tom had bounced back with his usual alacrity after the car-crash events a few months earlier - awfully quickly, everyone had thought. True to form, he'd responded to adversity by scoring the gig of a lifetime, and maintained an unnerving and constant air of breeziness.   
  
Whether that was the whole truth, Lachie couldn't say. Tom had shut him out of his life. He certainly hadn't grieved extensively over previous relationships, but none of them had meant so much to him. To make things trickier, he had no idea what had passed between Tom and Carrie after she had left his place that night. He did not know the details because Tom had never told him. He flatly refused to discuss Carrie at all - it was as though she had never existed. Perhaps this was rather telling in itself, Lachie thought. One thing was certain; Tom was not himself. These acts of wilful self-sabotage, and this brash, harsh exterior; it was not his nature, and if Carrie was not the reason for it, then something else had really upset him.   
  
"Has anything else happened?"  
"Not that I'm aware of. I mean, God knows. He used to keep me in the loop. As far as I know, everything was fine, and then things went wrong with his girlfriend, and you two had your...issue, and then he said he was fine but truthfully, the bottom has just fallen out of things. He obsesses over the work one day, and the next he behaves like he doesn't give a shit. I can't figure him out any more."  
"Then it's Carrie," Lachie said. "That's what this is about. He's pretending he's over it, but he's obviously not. He and I patched things up, but he's not in touch with her at all. He can't even say her name. So that's it."  
"But what are we supposed to do about it?"


	26. Chapter 26

"It's completely unscrupulous."  
"Yep."  
"It almost certainly won't work. It might even make things dramatically worse."  
"I know."  
"If he finds out -"  
"- he'll kill us both. I know."  
  
There was a silent pall. The two unlikely conspirators waited for each other to speak. Lachie continued.  
"The present situation -"  
"- is unsustainable," Luke admitted.  
"Do you have any better ideas?" asked Lachie mildly.  
"No. I don't."  
"So."  
"Oh, God."  
"Who'll invite her?"  
"Well, you know her... er... I mean..." Luke floundered, the words dying as he spoke them. Lachie reflected inwardly that it was admittedly a challenge to talk with one's foot in one's mouth.  
"In what circumstance would I invite her? We haven't spoken for months. It's sort of an unspoken agreement that we won't. Why would I suddenly invite her to a gala? She isn't stupid."  
"Well, it can't come from me. Do you really think she'll respond to an invite from Tom's publicist? Hardly."  
"Can't you get one of your PR chums to send it? I know you're doing the UK press for it but perhaps there's a digital agency that could send it. I don't know, there's bloody legions of you, I can't keep track of who does what."  
"Alright, alright. I'll sort something out."  
"Good. Let me know if you need anything."  
"If this blows up in our faces, it was your idea."  
"Yes, yes - you can put the blame on me. Might as well get back to being the black sheep sometime, I suppose. Can't let Tom have all the fun."  
"If he fires me..."  
"Then the way things are going the moment, you've had a lucky escape. So you've nothing to lose. Right?"  
"Right," Luke sighed.

_~~~~~_

  
_I swear to God, if they don't introduce fast and slow lanes in London soon, I'm giving up and moving to the Shetland Islands. Or Edinburgh, at least. It sounds nuts but I do miss the cold sometimes. Edinburgh cold is a warm, cosy sort of cold. It makes sense if you're a local, though most people look at me oddly when I say that. And I could still write there. I might even get more done._  
  
_It was a promising meeting, but it overran, and now I'm late - I was meant to be at the Fox offices twenty minutes ago. I hate being late. Please, please God, don't let it cost me this one. I've had a run of good luck lately and I'm not ready for it to end. They haven't told me much about the project yet. All I know is it's an adaption of the biography of a very famous woman. But they've got leads in mind and Ellen hinted that it's mooted to be a huge film._  
  
_I really don't want to jinx it, or piss anyone off. Everyone's jumpy at the moment. The Weinstein effect has been seismic. I hear the male bosses (so, most of them, then) have discovered unheard of levels of courtesy towards their female employees, while snapping worse than usual at anyone who fucks up. Everyone's petrified. Of losing their job. Of getting sued. Or the simple and very real possibility that their company will go down the tubes if it turns out their boss is a predator too. Being a writer keeps me clear of that machinery, thank God. I've not had to deal with some of the shit the actresses and studio staff have. I'm a freelancer, and my job is not so easily sexualised as the women in the front line. I don't envy them at all. It makes me shudder._  
  
_God, tourists - it's like flying ant season, you can't move for them. I thought I could zip up Dean Street quickly but it seems to be national selfie day. I might start carrying an airhorn. Why take a photo in front of a sushi bar? Why?_  
  


_~~~~~_

  
Carrie closed the front door behind her, and dropped her bags in the hallway, taking only her phone with her into the kitchen. She reached for a glass and emptied the last of the Rioja into it. The daylight was just fading to a warm dark grey, and she turned into the living room and curled up on the sofa in the gloom, pushing off her boots and tucking her feet up beneath her. She looked again at the glaring phone screen, scanning through the email from Ellen, her agent. Only now did she allow herself not just to smile, but to beam with delight, screwing her face up and jiggling her shoulders excitedly. She had maintained the poker face all day, but it was really happening. They'd optioned her next book, and Fox wanted her on the biopic.  
  
Things were finally starting to go right again.  
  
She thought back to how things had been a few months ago. The phrase "cruel summer" came to mind, she thought ruefully. It was hard to square the person she had been then with who she was now. It made her squirm to think about it. She had been so in thrall to Tom, so pitiably attached to him. She hadn't realised until it all fell apart. She should have accepted that it was over, but instead she had begged, and tried and tried, and let herself crumble to nothing when her efforts had come to nothing. In the end it had cost her more than she had to give. Only the writing, the thing she could do for herself without any help from anyone, had righted her. She had clung onto it, and used it to pull herself to her feet, and now, finally, it was paying off.  
  
There was still a bittersweet tang to everything. She remembered the Isotopia premiere. It happened two long, frozen weeks after they had broken up. He was supposed to accompany her - that had always been the plan. For once, he would have been the proud guest on her arm, her red carpet, and he would have seen what all that work had been for. Instead, she went with Ellen, and was photographed alone.  
  
She remembered the penetrating gauntlet of questions from the journalists. Where was Tom? Were they broken up? Were they getting back together? Had they spoken? Was he with Taylor? It was a degrading and pitiless climax to a fortnight of humiliation, intrusion and utter, relentless sadness. Depression had swallowed her whole and she sloshed around in its dark belly, disorientated and disconnected from any part of the life she had anchored herself to. It had cost her more than they knew to get herself to the premiere that night, and she wished she had not come. She had grinned vacantly, avoiding eye contact with any of the bastards, and stumbled blindly forward, out of the wave of braying voices.  
  
Being shut out had hurt the most. The keys to the kingdom were gone - she had thrown them in his face and he had not offered them back. The shock of it was like being denied sunlight. She had tried to phone him a few times after things died down, but he never answered. The third time, she didn't leave a message, and shortly after that she let hope wither and stopped calling. That was that. The end of the most vivid part of her life. She had wondered if she would ever feel anything so deeply again.  
  
Worse, she had not been allowed to forget him. She wrote furiously, flooding her hurt and anxiety into a new book - nothing to do with Isotopia, a new set of characters altogether. But every time she got on the tube, it seemed, there he would be, on the cover of the Metro or the Evening Standard, with his arm around someone new. Usually pop stars or actresses. It was like watching a piano being dropped from a high building, over and over again, its graceful curves splintering into groaning debris, exploding in slow motion. Once it was a tennis player - that hurt less, somehow. A couple of times, it was Taylor.  
  
Or he was out on the town with his clique of actor friends, drunk and sharply dressed. Carrie did not go out late at night these days, but once, after a dinner, she found herself in the same bar as him. It was a bohemian, cellar venue below a hotel, very fin de siècle. He had been suited and booted, and she had been stiffly dressed and out of place. He threw his head back laughing at someone's joke, and she crouched upon the floor behind the corner of the bar, pretending to rummage in her bag. A little party left the bar and she took cover behind them and fled, leaving him the field. That was the first and last time she saw him, except for every day in the papers. He was a distant planet, a satellite that circled her sky and still pulled at her moods but remained utterly beyond reach.  
  
So, she had picked herself up, focused on the work, and made herself put him behind her. It ached, but he was an episode in her life, come and gone, nothing more. She ate less and ran more. She looked past the copies of the Metro splayed on tube seats in the mornings, and got her news from the Standard in the evening instead. There were no celebrity gossip pages, just a couple of columns of more highbrow London nightlife. Politicians, designers, the odd West End actress, and no controversy. She forced herself to get up in the morning, no later than 7am after a few weeks of practice. A run, a proper breakfast (cooked if not eaten) and two hours of serious writing. It was a painful regime to install, but it denied her the time for self-pity. And slowly, it had started to work. The light was coming through the clouds, and things were starting to look promising. The memories still stung, but she started to wonder how she could have been so dependent on another person. She didn't notice men now. They passed her on the street, and she looked through them. If they cast sly glances her way from time to time, the glances didn't reach her.  
  
There was nothing from Lachie. She didn't contact him, though she often wondered about him. It would have been good to see his face, to see the kind glint in his eyes. She remembered the way he had put his hands on her face, and her heart prickled. Once, feeling a shimmer of optimism, she picked up the phone and dialled the first three digits of his number. Reason got the better of her; she knew, if she was honest with herself, that he didn't want to hear from her. And it was, finally, time to be honest with herself. She saw his picture in the Standard once, a theatre event in the Londoner's Diary. He was with a playwright she didn't know, smiling and raising his glass. She read the nightlife page more often after that, but he didn't appear again. She wondered whether he and Tom had patched things up yet.


	27. Chapter 27

_I think I may have made a vast mistake._  
  
_We shouldn't have invited her. Of course we shouldn't. And now it's too late to undo it._  
  
_Me and my bright ideas. Thought I was so clever, didn't I. If she shows up, it's obvious what will happen. There'll be an almighty row. I still don't really know what happened between them, but it's clear enough that it wasn't an amicable breakup. He wouldn't have gone off the rails like this if it had been. So one or both of them will end up angry and humiliated, especially if it happens around any press. Or in front of - good God, it doesn't bear thinking about. Of course they'll both be furious at me. And then there's Luke - by the sound of it, it could be the last nail in the coffin there too. If Tom doesn't fire him he'll probably quit anyway - I think the poor bastard's inches away from a nervous breakdown. Though in fairness, he did rope me into it. Even if the actual, ghastly idea was mine._  
  
_Maybe... maybe there's a way to avert disaster. I'll talk to Luke. He must know something about the logistics of it. Perhaps... if they didn't even cross each other's paths. It's got to be worth a try. Or perhaps, even if they do, they'll have the sense to just ignore each other._  
  
_Oh, calm down, for God's sake. Luke said yesterday that she hasn't RSVP'd yet. Evidently she's smarter than the pair of us, and realises it would be horrific. Here's a thought - maybe she just never wants to see either of us again. Who could blame her? Who needs that drama in their life?_  
  
_Regardless, we shouldn't have invited her. I should have minded my own business. It was selfish and stupid. I wanted to see her, and I thought I could kill two birds with one stone. Idiot. And what's the point of seeing her, anyway? It wasn't me she wanted. What would I say? Dull small talk, and neither of us able to look at each other. Thank God she didn't reply._  
  
_I don't know what I was thinking._  
  
_Except that I miss her._  
  


_~~~~~_

  
The invitation sat on the desk in Ellen's poky little Islington office. She and Carrie had been going through the twelve-month plan, blocking out approximate media and writing periods. Particularly pleasing was the "no contact" fortnight in June, reserved for writing and strictly nothing else. Carrie mused about taking a cottage in southern Spain, and holing up to finish the final Isotopia book. She was keen to bring the series to an end. It had been an enormous success for her, but she was itching to move on from it. It belonged in the past for her now, and it brought her little pleasure any more. She had a notebook in her tote bag full of ideas and sketched dialogue for a new set of characters. Self discipline prevented her from beginning to write any of it in prose form while she still had the last book to finish, but she was feverish to make a real start, while the ideas were still wriggling with new life.  
  
The courier had stamped in, his helmet perched half-on half-off his head. He kept them waiting while he fumbled in his messenger bag. Carrie wondered when Ellen would get a receptionist. She must be able to afford it now, she thought. Maybe even a bigger office altogether; there was barely room to move in the little basement room, and people chucked their crisp packets and fried chicken boxes down the metal entrance stairs every day. Finally, the delivery was retrieved, and the courier stamped back out again. A stiff black envelope, and inside it, a rigid black card, embossed in silver with the BFI logo picked out. Ellen caught the look in her eye and craned her neck to read it. "A gala to celebrate the life and work of Martin Scorsese." The script lettering curled prettily, shining silvery-pink in the morning light. Carrie's insides twisted.  
  
She thought of the last time she and Tom had spoken. The letter she had left him, never responded to. New York.  
"Were you expecting this?" she asked Ellen. Her agent raised her eyebrows, and shook her head. "It wasn't on my list."  
Carrie turned the invitation over in her hands. There was no sender address on it.  
"Would the BFI have sent it on the offchance?"  
Ellen shook her head again.  
"I'd have had an email - the formal invite would have followed it. They like to know who's coming, they don't like surprises."  
"Maybe you didn't see the email..." Carrie ventured, and Ellen gave her a beady look.  
"I do not miss emails, my dear."  
Carrie frowned and put the invitation on the desk.  
"I think it's rather obvious, don't you?" asked Ellen pointedly. "Unless you know anyone else with a connection to Martin Scorsese?"  
Carrie returned her glance, saying nothing.  
"Have you heard from the prodigal thespian since it all went swirling down the shitter?"  
Carrie reflected, not for the first time, that Ellen had a delicate way with words.  
"No."  
Ellen said nothing. She had been thoroughly unimpressed with Tom after it had fallen apart. Carrie remembered what a relief it had been to have one person firmly on her side, not commiserating that she had lost her movie star boyfriend, but indignant and protective, clucking around her and brooking no defence of him.  
  
"It would have been thoughtful of him to contact me before sending that. He might have asked himself - or me - whether it would even be welcome. But I suppose he knows the answer he'd get," sniffed Ellen. Carrie's mouth twitched. Her agent was terribly officious when she was in mother hen mode. She couldn't blame Tom for avoiding that particular gauntlet.  
"Anyway, I suppose it's an olive branch, if a rather self-important one. What do you think? You don't have to go if you don't feel comfortable. It wasn't in the media plan, so no loss if you don't."  
Carrie frowned again. There it was again - that heart-in-mouth feeling. She stared at the invitation, frozen in an agony of indecision.  
  
Finally, she slipped the invitation back in its luxurious black envelope, and dropped it softly into the waste paper basket.


	28. Chapter 28

It was a new shirt, and the buttonholes on this one were particularly stiff. Tom fiddled with a cufflink, trying to jam it through the narrow opening. He glanced with concern at his phone on the dresser beside him. He needed to get going soon.

He usually had the help of his stylist dressing for these occasions. She was good company, with excellent taste, a bright, brisk manner and a box of tricks to solve any sartorial problem, and she was never fazed by things like awkward buttonholes. But today Tom had wanted to do it himself. Tonight he didn't want company, and with or without help, he liked the ritual of dressing for an event. He appreciated good clothes - the thick, perfectly pressed cloth of a good suit, expertly cut to fit him; a crisp, new twill shirt; silk ties in subtle patterns, a sharp pair of cufflinks, and of course a good watch. He didn't collect much of a wardrobe, preferring to borrow suits for events and only keeping the ones he really felt at home in. But he did indulge his liking for beautiful timepieces, and had built a handsome personal collection. Tonight, his eye was drawn to a Breitling aviator. The dial was surfaced with gauges and a rotating bezel for flight calculations. It was more technical-looking than his usual style, but tonight's dress code was black tie, and the mechanically styled watch, not strictly proper for the occasion, gave his black Gucci dinner jacket a devil-may-care edge.

White light flooded the window, and below it an engine rumbled. His driver. Not time to go yet, but soon enough. He fastened the difficult cufflink, straightened his tie and shrugged on his jacket. His hair was easier to manage since he had had it cut again; the wavy curls had spilled over into retriever territory again and he had lost patience and lopped it off again. It would have to be short for filming anyway, he thought. He ran his hands through the front, tousling it slightly, then narrowed his eyes and appraised his reflection. He looked at himself mathematically on occasions like this. It wasn't a matter of admiring himself, but of maintaining a standard. For himself, for his absent stylist, who wouldn't forgive him if he showed up in the photos looking slovenly, and for Martin.

Filming was starting soon, and Tom knew the team were still apprehensive about working with him. He had mucked around in recent months, indulging himself and playing the hedonistic fool, and he felt ashamed of himself - a new feeling that had seeped into his waking hours recently like a dark, greasy tinge at the edge of one's vision. He would not admit to it in earshot of anyone else, least of all those who disapproved the most, but it took the shine off things. Luke was at the end of his tether, he knew. Of course he had shown up to every meeting, every reading. He had learned his lines, asked the right questions about his role and the other characters. It was second nature to him; the one vice he could not fall victim to was laziness. And he had tried to behave with a modicum of humility; he knew in "work mode" he could sometimes be a little full of himself, and so he had tried to refrain from explaining what didn't need explaining, talking down to people who knew full well how to do their jobs. At work, he had done his best. Yet he knew he had not done what they'd asked of him. He had not kept a low, sober profile. He had flung himself into some sort of delayed adolescence and enjoyed the full range and reach of his privilege. Only the fact that they knew - and he knew they knew - that he was singularly the man for the role, had kept them from backing away. He was on marshy ground, and tonight it was time to make amends and reassure his American colleagues. It was Martin's night, and he would be a picture of compliance, respectfulness and sobriety.

He couldn't explain where it had come from, this belligerence. He had never placed pleasure ahead of responsibility before. The part of him that cherished time alone had fallen away and flickered uncomplainingly out of life. He had always had a dual nature, but the introvert that he had quietly nurtured, the bookish, private side of him, was gone. He did not want to ramble around his house on his own or lie sleepless in the empty darkness. Sleep was a necessary, mechanical act that he underwent in uncomfortable, restless spurts amid the chaos. He wanted, as the song went, to see people and life. He wanted champagne and laughter, neon lights and music, substances and liaisons; to sweep into rooms with his friends around him and lay waste to everything the night had to offer.

To his discomfort he had discovered that his desires were subject to a law of inverses. He had earned a reputation as a charming, cheerful sort of a chap while keeping his nose to the grindstone and his hand firmly on the steering wheel. Gamely he joined in any absurd thing interviewers asked of him, being the lighthearted fellow with the good attitude. Fans had loved him for it, and he got on with everyone. Now that he had let himself off the leash and fed the hedonist in him, for the first time in his life he could do anything he wanted. He surrounded himself with friends at all times, which was just as well, because no-one else seemed to want to be around him. He could see the shadows in people's eyes. Contempt, mistrust, naked disgust... and half-hidden, fluttering beneath them like a bird under a cat's paw, a uneasy double helix of envy and pity. He stood at the centre of the storm, his companions whirlpooling around him in a light-on-black, drink-swilling blur, and he was alone. It seemed he could be amused, or he could be liked. There was not a middle ground.

Resentment chafed at him, but guilt had started to eclipse it, and the fun had started to be less so. On a couple of nights this week he had made excuses to his friends. They had gone marauding without him. He knew he was making things hard for the people who had supported him the most, and he disliked himself for it. He knew what he owed Luke and Christian, not to mention his family. And he knew that this life-changing opportunity would slip through his fingers if he didn't get a grip. Tonight, there would be no bad behaviour. Time to grow up, again. He gazed impassively at the whisky decanter on the side table, reached instead for his phone and keys, and switched off the lights behind him.


	29. Chapter 29

Carrie chewed her lip and pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes. This didn't feel like a good idea. Even Ellen didn't particularly want her to go. And yet... something compelled her.

She couldn't say why. An unwanted pull? Perhaps, simply, an inability to walk away. She had thought it was finished, and he had reanimated...what? Them? Love, friendship? Merely the fact of maybe... maybe knowing each other? As she examined it, Carrie realised that was enough. Not to be reunited, but simply to know each other, to burn down the great black edifice of strangerdom that stood between them. To be able to look each other in the eye again, and not walk away in anger or shame.

Was that what he wanted, or was there another reason he had invited her?

She remembered the dry look Ellen had given her when she had announced, casually - breezily, she had thought - that she thought she might accept the invitation after all.  
"So you did fish it out of the bin, then. I wondered." She had turned and departed the room, leaving an awkward silence behind her.

Carrie felt like she'd been caught with her hands in the cookie jar.

The dress, at least, looked good. It was a miraculous garment; a bias-cut length of molten silver suspended from threadlike straps. The thin, slightly rough silk gave the illusion of slight sheerness, and the fabric shone more brightly as she cast it away from the light, a clever trick of scientific weaving that made its glamour all the more casual and undone. It clung without tightness, and she wished she could bottle the illusion of confidence it gave her.

She hadn't heard from him at all. She wished she could make sense of it. An invitation, and then... silence. Perhaps he was annoyed that she had taken so long to respond. She had thought about phoning him, but her courage had failed her, and anyway, in the aftermath she had deleted his number, exiled and depressed. She wondered how long it would take to break the ice. The first awkward conversation, the embarrassed cheek-kiss in greeting - all the weird little hurdles that mapped out the terrain between strangers and intimates. She dreaded it all and wished they could skip to the part where a real conversation took over.

She wished, also, that the invite had offered a plus one. It would have been reassuring to go into battle with someone at her side. But then, she supposed, there was a reason he wanted her to come alone. To talk, or at least not to have to deal with anyone she might present as her date.

If he had only given her something to go on.


	30. Chapter 30

Lights, cameras - action! The South Bank was lit up like a film set. Usually life by the river rolled along at a steady pace - film and theatre goers meandering towards their evenings, first dates munching through Mexican and Italian food over laughter and awkward conversation, and office workers taking the scenic route to homes they didn't care to reach too soon, flanked by the brutalist silhouette of the cultural quarter on one side and on the other, the grand old riverside hotels across the water. Tonight, the air crackled and great floodlights swung back and forth across the rising concrete edifice of the National Theatre as the great and good of the film industry descended on the BFI next door, begging and scheming for admittance, dressed to be photographed toasting a cinematic titan.

A woman stood at the side entrance, the glass of the stairway lit behind her. She wore high heels and a black dress, and was enough of a professional to have learned not to shiver in the night air. She held a clipboard, and inclined her head to those she ticked off her list. Occasionally she turned someone away, and the diplomacy she had refined through years of waitressing bloomed suddenly. She did not draw attention to their shaming predicament by cutting them down further with sarcasm or rudeness. The phrase "door bitch" was a travesty, she thought, all the more so when taken as a job description. Errors happened, and she did not wish to be remembered for reinforcing them. A whispered word, the gentle suggestion that one might like to phone their contact and ask them to resolve the problem. The wronged had their people make the necessary corrections and slid inside as though nothing had gone awry, and the unwanteds wandered away with their ears tipped into their phones, arranging their faces into studied expressions of impatience and puzzlement. They saved face, but they did not, under any circumstance, get in.

The next string of Audis rolled up to the foot of the red carpet, and ushers released their passengers into the throng. The woman liked this part of the evening. Even in filthy weather it was still a fascinating sight. She did not particularly follow cinema and often didn't know who the esteemed guests were, but she liked to observe them anyway, in all their many guises; when she did know a face, it was more enjoyable to pretend she didn't, and assess them as if for the first time. Like a flock of birds they twittered, peacocked and jostled for position. Magpies and penguins, depending on the degree of portliness, straightbacked in dinner jackets, and the women gleaming in every colour and texture imaginable, like so many birds of paradise.

One man caught her eye as he emerged alone from his car. This one was a magpie: tall and straight in his tuxedo, shiny black shoes, his eye searching the crowd brightly for something. He buttoned his jacket and strolled up the crowded carpet, still sweeping a sightline back and forth across the handsomely dressed masses. The woman saw him stop, momentarily, as he found what he was looking for. She followed his stare: a papery silver gown, and in it, a slight young woman with a fringed tumble of wavy black hair that stopped at her jawline. The young woman was alone and uncertain, her eyes flitting around her as if at any moment she might be found out.

The magpie started to push his way through shoulders and conversations, his eyes fixed on her. Too bad - she was off in the other direction, her thin form fitting between people twice her width and height. The woman had the sense of watching the crucial moment in a film, the pivot on which the day might be saved or lost, and her hand tightened around her clipboard. He was making progress now, his hand parting the crowd before him, but forty people still stood between them. Urgency in his footsteps now. He was losing the game; she could see it in the strain of his neck - oh! Too late. The silver creature found what she was looking for - another magpie with the same face. The woman peered closer, curiosity and puzzlement blocking out everything else around her.

Hope opened the silver bird's features, and met blankness in his. Her pursuer, still metres away, stopped dead in his tracks, clamped a hand to his forehead, his face a mask of dismay. He pushed his fingers through his black hair and pressed his lips together with a pained look as the silver girl found her way to his fair-haired doppelganger. Nothing coming back to her but that blank stare. What were they saying? She saw photographers closing in on the pair, and the girl recoiled as he shook his head, turned from her and walked away. Now the black magpie was upon her, his hand on her arm. She turned her face to him and the woman saw damp inkblots beneath the silver girl's eyes. Her demeanour shifted, stiffened as the man spoke to her. Her features were twisted in anger and she shook his hand violently from her arm as -  
  
"Excuse me. Excuse me?"

The voice, expensive and annoyed, intruded upon her and the woman collected herself with a start, bringing her clipboardcloser.  
"I'm awfully sorry - may I take your name please?"


	31. Chapter 31

_What is she doing here? Why is she here?_   
  
_How could she show up tonight? Tonight, of all nights. What in God's name was she thinking? Why now? Did someone put her up to it, or does she just have a twisted side that I never knew about? I need this, I can't have it go wrong, I need this to stay on track. It was going fine until...this._   
  
_Fuck._

~~~~~

  
"Are you okay? What just happened?"  
Carrie was, for the first time in her life, utterly lost for words. She shook her head as Lachie frowned down at her with concern.  
"What did he say?"  
"He's - " She swallowed and started again. "I just said hello. That's all I said. He went off at me. He's crazy. He asked what I was doing here, who said I could be here... He invited me! He's sick, it's some sort of sick game to him. I thought... God, I'm so stupid. Why does he keep doing this to me?"   
She choked on the last word, and turned her face to his. Lachie felt sick. His doing. His fucking stupid, stupid idea.  
"Carrie, listen - it's not his fault." Her eyebrows shot up. "Not his, or yours - it was me. He didn't invite you, I did. I'm so sorry. This wasn't -"  
"You??" Her eyes blazed, and two livid red spots flooded her cheeks. "You fucking... arsehole!" She wrenched her arm from his grip. "Is this your idea of a fucking JOKE? You think I haven't been through enough? You're fucking twisted, the pair of you."  
"Carrie -" Lachie reached a placating hand towards her.  
"FUCK you. Fuck you." Her voice and her jabbing finger both shook wildly; a nuclear rage blanched her blood and bleached her vision. She thought every nerve ending would explode beneath her skin. Nearby, a camera flashed, but her fury enveloped her, blinding her to its glare.  
"Please listen, I'm so, so sorry - I promise you, the _last_ thing I meant -"  
"Get the fuck away from me. Just... There's nothing good in you, is there?" Her words lashed him, and she hoped they hurt. "You've brought me nothing but trouble. Everything goes wrong when you're around - I wish I'd never met you. You poison everything." If it was unfair, she didn't care. Murderous satisfaction washed over her as she regarded the wound she'd inflicted. She stared defiantly at him, and didn't feel the angry tears warming her own face. Blinking through them she turned and stumbled away, tripping slightly on the hem of her dress as she pushed past surprised guests who had pretended not to listen to the ugly scene behind them.

~~~~~

  
_God almighty. What do I do now? I've never seen her so livid. I mean... I've seen variations of it, but she never turned it on me like that. For a moment I thought she was going to swing for me._   
  
_If she's that angry, what the hell state is Tom in? There'll be a colossal row tonight. I suppose if I can stay out of his way long enough then at least we can have it out away from the cameras._   
  
_I don't know what to feel. Disgusted with myself, obviously. The things she said... She despises me. Of course she does. But... is it a good thing that she was angry? I remember that night at mine, after Tom messed up. She was broken. Completely shattered by it. Angry is better... right? At least it means I haven't hurt her as much as I feared. Or perhaps she's just stronger now._   
  
_I guess now I know what she thinks of me. Stupid, towering conceit, imagining she might be glad to see me. She's right. I ruined everything already, she was vulnerable and not thinking straight, I should never have let it happen. Everything that happened since then is my fault, and now I've fucked things up for them again. I should have left it alone._   
  
_Bloody Luke. I should warn him... but Christ, if he hadn't talked me into this..._   
  
_I can't leave it like this. I've got to sort it out._


	32. Chapter 32

_It's like she turned up to taunt me. Why else would she be here? Why would she dress up like that, if not to get in my face? It's like an act of sabotage. She didn't stumble in by coincidence. She knew about Scorsese, she would have known I was here. And she would have known there's no way I'd have been okay with her showing up. She's done this on purpose._  
  
_That dress._  
  
_The way she looked at me._  
  
_I can't think. It was going fine. Interviews, small talk, all of it. I was doing everything they wanted, even his assistant seemed to be warming to me. And now I can't think, can't see. She showed up, uninvited, to something that has nothing to do with her, that she knows matters enormously to me, seemingly just to fuck with me. It's extraordinary._  
  
_I didn't think I could ever be this angry again. I can't stand it, this fury that just.... eats me up. This isn't me. I don't want to be this person. This is the effect she has on me. It's poisonous. How could I have thought we had a future, how could I have thought she was - stop, stop it. Stop dwelling on it. Stop thinking about it. Focus. Recover this. You've got to. Just get it together. Be a man. Be a professional._

~~~~~

  
The crowds were a blessing and a curse. Easy to blend into them and not attract too much attention, just another guest in a dinner suit, taller than average but far from the most well-known person here. The heat was on the US A-listers. But Carrie was tiny, and did not want to be caught. If he could reach her before she took off...  
  
She was at the entrance door. She gleamed, a liquid flash of light, and slipped beyond the glass. Tingling with impatience, Lachie elbowed his way through the swarm of guests. He reached the door and lunged inside but a thick arm barred his path, black with a fluorescent yellow band around it.  
"You need to check in, sir."  
"Of course - I - sorry - ". He craned his neck to squint into the darkness beyond the burly shoulder.  
Next to the man-mountain, a young woman with a clipboard twinkled at him kindly. "I just need your name, sir."  
"Lachie Hiddleston."  
"That's fine - go straight through. If it's any help - " she lowered her voice and caught his arm softly " - she was heading towards the bathrooms. She's probably gone to, ah, tidy herself up." She gestured vaguely around her eyes.  
"Why don't you give her a minute? I'm sure she'll be out shortly. You could wait over there." She pointed behind them to the outer wall of a small screening room. Lachie nodded gratefully.  
  
Outside the screening room he sank onto an upholstered bench. What a mess. What a godforsaken, ill-advised mess. He stared at his gleaming shoes and rooted around for the right words. His mind was a blank fuzz, an untuned tv screen. How could he justify what he'd done? He hadn't even done it for them. Not really. But the truth would serve no-one, not even him.  
  
A rustling sound distracted him - a flicker of silver striding towards him. He stood up abruptly and straightened his tie. His feet searched for the right stance. Her steps grew nearer, and he saw her spot him and falter. The determined click of her heels lost their rhythm, and in slow time Lachie saw her deliberating - stop or pass, ignore or acknowledge him. He stepped forward and she slowed.  
"One moment. Nothing more. Please," he urged.  
  
That lost little boy look. He and Tom had that in common, Carrie thought. The tipped eyebrows, the earnest expression, so penitent and self-effacing, so privileged, so confident of forgiveness - how could any cold heart resist this elegant, well-meant offering? She remembered that look, once upon a time in a bedroom a lifetime ago, from someone who had done a lot more damage.   
  
Her eyes were ringed with black. He couldn't tell how much was by design and how much had been salvaged. Her shoulders were sunk hard and low, her jaw set - she had prepared herself for this conversation. She faced him, small, slight, diamond-hard - if there was any fragility left it was sealed beneath that chain-mail dress. Joan of Arc, he thought.  
  
"What?"  
His eyes stared and his voice failed. He swallowed. She raised her brows, and shifted, a derisive, sideways motion - insolent, challenging.  
"Well?"  
He started. Stopped. Gave up. Get your shit together, he thought. Talk. Say something. His throat locked up, and words deserted him.  
"Oh, for God's sake, Lachie!" She stared him down. "What the fuck? Is this your idea of funny? Or... what? Luke's idea? Column inches? You needed some press, or Tom did?" She waited, as he tried to reset his mind.  
"I'm sorry. It was just me, no one else. I really didn't mean to do any harm."  
"That doesn't tell me anything."  
They both turned self consciously towards the wall as the crowds started to filter past them to the auditorium at the end of the foyer. Two glowing red spots punctuated Carrie's cheekbones, Lachie noticed, the anger still hot on her skin. Trapped in the beam of her unforgiving stare, he didn't see the shadow behind him.  
"Seriously?" Tom appeared behind them, and Carrie almost jumped out of her skin. His cold gaze surveyed them both. "You've got to be kidding me."  
"Jesus - no - it's nothing like that - fuck - Carrie, wait!" Lachie reached a hand, too late, after Carrie but she lurched backwards, retreating from the brothers.  
"I can't do this again. You should never have invited me. Just leave me alone, both of you - I'm done." Her voice cracked and she bolted. Lachie faced his brother, expecting another eruption, but his eyes were cold and resigned.


End file.
